


you are so consistent

by hotelsweet



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, One Shot Collection, the fluffiest fluff in town, with a smattering of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotelsweet/pseuds/hotelsweet
Summary: a series of one-shots based off things that Jake/Amy have said about or to each other- aka how they came to know these things, how they proved each other right later on, or even just oneshots based off those lines





	1. “I watch Jeopardy! with you, you’re a straight-up psycho.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi !!! I'm trying to get myself to write more and enjoy it and these two are very accessible and fun for me- so this is a nice place for me to start.
> 
> pls leave kudos if you enjoy this because I'll definitely go more into this if I know people enjoy it!!
> 
> enjoy, love u

Amy's front door clattered shut as she and Jake stumbled into her apartment, Amy stifling a tipsy laugh as she shushed him. Grinning, Jake swayed slightly as he turned round to lock the door, while Amy dove straight for the couch after she peeled off her coat, throwing herself over the cushions and then attempting to fold her coat above her, taking her time, before putting it on the arm of the couch behind her. Even mildly drunk, Jake observed, she was a neat freak, his chest warming slightly as he watched her relax into the cushions, kicking off her shoes.

Their Fridays had been increasingly similar to this as of late, always following the same pattern: the squad would end up at the bar, just chatting and promising themselves they'd leave earlier than last week, but the warmth and haziness of each beer would only encourage the next- soon enough, though not before at least one embarrassing karaoke session incited by Charles and led on by Jake (and one, amazing time, Rosa- Jake still had yet to question her choice of 'I'm Your Man' by Wham!), the bar would be closing. At which point, of course, Jake and Amy would pick whose place to go back to- then whoever doesn't get to go home picks TV and food. It was their rule.

"Come on, what are we watching?" She beckoned him over, passing him the remote as he sat himself next to her, adjusting himself so as to let her rest her legs over his lap as he, too, pushed off his shoes and relaxed into the couch.

"Actually, you can choose," Jake said, pulling his phone out of his pocket, then pausing at the confusion on Amy's face, "I'm ordering pizza, and mine will obviously be display temperature. I know it bugs you, so I figured you could distract yourself with whatever you wanted to watch."

"You're bargaining with me so I'll gloss over your awful eating habits?"

Jake nodded, a teasing smile on his lips- he knew he could get away with it after the amount of drinks they'd consumed between them this evening. In the corner of his eye he saw Amy's face light up as she flicked through the TV guide, while he ordered their food on his phone. He felt her foot nudge his leg, and he looked up. Amy nodded towards the TV, where the familiar opening jingle of Jeopardy! was playing softly in the background. Jake looked back at her, watching as she tipsily wriggled to the tune, in what might have been considered a dance were she not horizontal.

He chuckled softly as she danced to the theme tune, partially taken-aback and partially in love. Though wisps of her hair had come loose at the bar, this finally pushed her hair free, falling over her shoulders and over the cushion under her head. She looked at him, her cheeks and chest flushed from the alcohol and the impromptu dance routine, a button undone at the top of her blouse. Only when she asked "What?" did Jake realise he'd been staring. He paused. "Just wondering how I ended up with someone with such intricate choreography to the Jeopardy! theme tune," he grinned.

Amy rolled her eyes and sat up at his side, messily dotting a kiss or two over his jaw and leaning against his shoulder. They relaxed into the couch, Jake pressing his fingers into hers. "This is the most important part," she mumbled- "they introduce everyone, and you have to guess who'll be the best. I'm specially trained in this," she slurred a little, turning to him with a proud smile, which he mirrored goofily in response.

"With literally anyone else I'd assume that's sarcasm, but I honestly wouldn't think twice if you told me you'd actually been on a kind of Jeopardy! analysis course."

"It was more of a club, actually, in college-" Jake cut her off with a quick kiss, laughing warmly against her mouth, Amy smiling as she felt his voice reverberate against her body. They broke away, but neither of them looked back at the screen, both blushing slightly.

"So who's your pick?" Jake asked, nodding towards the TV when Amy furrowed her brow in confusion. She turned to the screen for a couple of seconds, before she said-

"Her. The brunette lady in the middle."

"No way."

"Trust me on this!"

"Okay, okay... I'm going to go for the guy on the far right."

"What, are you kidding me right now?" Amy scoffed.

"Yeah, he seems smart." Jake said half-defensively as Amy rolled her eyes, positioning herself so she was facing him.

Jake's pick, a middle-aged man called Craig, buzzed in straight away, and promptly got the very first question wrong.

Amy, now half on Jake's lap, smiled smugly, eyebrows raised. He looked at her, mouth slightly parted, as if trying to find a comeback to his evident defeat. Her face was millimetres from his.

"Willing to accept that I'm a Jeopardy! genius yet?" She teased, but softened as she looked at him; the slight swell in the centre of his lips, the flush in his cheeks, the ruffled mess of his hair after his drunken dancing- and he was looking at her like that, the way he looked at her on that God-awful weekend when she broke up with Teddy and the way he looked at her when he finally kissed her for the first time. She leaned towards him slightly, almost cautiously, as though that final beer might make her go a little too far, their lips brushing against each other gently.

In an instant, his mouth was on hers, feverish, heated, hungry, and he gently pulled her leg around him so she was positioned on his lap. He felt her hands go straight for his face, fingers curling into his hair and evoking a soft groan from his throat. He slid his hands under her thighs, before moving up to her waist, pulling her even closer and deeper into the kiss. He took advantage of his position underneath her, kissing along her neck, and, slowly, down her chest, undoing the buttons on her blouse as he went. Amy groaned as he sucked on a particularly- yet inexplicably- sensitive spot above her breast, the one spot he knew drove her insane. Her blouse was hanging loosely off her body, almost at her elbows. Jake smiled up at her, a little smug.

"You'd better not think," she started quietly, leaning in towards him, "that this is going to happen every time I get pick of the TV here." Jake managed a soft laugh as she kissed down his jaw and over his neck, fingers fiddling clumsily with his belt.

"Amy," Jake almost whispered, without meaning to, and for a moment she thought something was wrong, pausing to look at him in concern. He sat up, more careful this time, and slowly leaned in towards her. Gently, tracing his thumb along her jaw, he kissed her. It was slower, more cautious, and Amy couldn't help thinking it was even more alluring than before, his tongue sweeping lightly over her lower lip before slipping into her mouth. His fingers pressed through her hair with his other hand firmly on her waist, he thumbed gently around the bottom of her bra, still teasing, gently grazing the bottom of her breast. She sighed, both of them now struggling to hide their ragged breath, and looked at him straight in the eye. "My room."  
Sliding his hands under her legs and lifting her up, Amy giggled at the sudden elevation, pleasantly dizzy from the lust and the alcohol. He managed to get them over to her antique dresser in the hall before he needed to get his hands on her again.

He finished undoing the final buttons of her shirt and she wriggled as far as she could out of her jeans- knocking several books off the dresser in the process- before pulling off Jake's shirt. He thumbed gently around the top of her underwear, teasing, the way he had always done, even before they had finally got together, fingertips grazing her hips so gently she pushed into his touch. The TV was still on in the background, Amy noted briefly, as she wrapped her arms around Jake's neck while he kissed around her chest, tugging lightly at her shirt, which was hanging lazily off her elbows. She let it slip off her arms and onto the dresser, eyes still on the TV. Jake kissed his way down her body, his lips hot on her skin, sucking gently on a sweet spot on her lower abdomen. Even wasted he was thinking about her first.

“The three Latin phrases found in the Constitution are ‘pro tempore’, ‘post ex-facto’, and this legal two-word phrase,” the television hummed softly.

Habeas Corpus, she thought. She’d looked it up herself when, having completed all of the vocabulary lists for her AP Latin class, she’d been told to find significant parts of life where the language still remained today. She’d loved it.

Her chosen contestant from earlier, a young woman called Holly, buzzed in, and her panel lit up. Amy felt Jake kissing around her inner thighs, sighing, but not looking away from the screen.

“What is bonos mores?”

“Are you freakin’ KIDDING me?! Moron!” Amy yelled at the TV, making Jake jump. She quickly covered her mouth with her hands, looking apologetically down at her incredibly startled boyfriend, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised as he watched her turn back to him slowly, evidently immediately regretting her outburst.

He stood up, coming face to face with her, looking at her adorably sheepish and slightly embarrassed face, an expression he’d seen only once or twice before, normally after a social blunder with Holt. He stifled a giggle.

“I can’t tell if I’m worried that Jeopardy! is more interesting than what I’m trying to do down here-“

“No, Jake-“ Amy stammered,

“-or if I’m super turned on by how much you care about it.” He grinned. She smiled at him, a moment of relief that he wasn’t angry or self-conscious, thankful for his confidence in himself.

“Come here.” She murmured, cupping his face with her hands and kissing him slowly. She slid off the dresser, standing in front of him, and pressed her whole- and now almost entirely bare- body against him, feeling his arms wrap around her waist and shoulders. “I’m sorry.” She whispered. “Let me make up for it.” She tugged his hand gently and started towards her room. He followed her down the hall.

“What was the answer?”

“Habeas Corpus!”

“Unbelievable,” he teased in mock disbelief.

“I know, right?”


	2. "Man, I forgot how long your signature takes."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set a year or so before s1- jake and amy are stuck together on an overnight job the night before jake's birthday. a lot of stuff goes wrong. go figure
> 
> see also: an actual spat over amy's signature. because what else would you expect from these buffoons? they're buffoons.

“I cannot believe this is how I’m spending the night before my birthday.”  
Amy glanced over at her partner, eyes on the road, concentration in his dark eyes as he nodded along to Ante Up, which was currently humming through the patrol car’s speakers.

“Quit whining, it’s a Thursday evening. I highly doubt you had anything else planned,” she said tartly. 

“Can we change the music now?” She leant towards the radio.

“Sure, so long as we’re clear that ‘music’ doesn’t include any kind of podcast or any classical music,” he said, smiling smugly as she withdrew her arm and sat back, rolling her eyes. 

“Well, can we at least listen to something other than your mixtapes?”

“They took time and effort. They’re also my main talent. I probably wouldn’t have lost my virginity at 17 were it not for these bad boys.” He patted a small case next to his seat.

“For the love of God, Jake, it’s 2012.” 

“Fine, but trust me when I say you’re going to miss the constant explicit R&B.”

Amy pulled the tape out of the player and sat back, enjoying a brief moment of quiet.

“Ooooooooh, ante up! Yap that fool!” Jake shouted, bouncing in his seat. So much for quiet. “Ante up! Kidnap that fool!”

“Shut uuuuuup,” she moaned, woefully slumping in her seat. Jake grinned, pleased with himself. 

“You never said karaoke was off the table! Them thugs ya know, ain’t friendly,” he continued, bopping around in his seat. Surely he knew how awful he sounded, she thought, watching him.

One of their perps had been spotted and detained in New Hampshire, which meant they’d had to drive up as soon as they heard- which, conveniently, had been the late afternoon. Much to their delight, this would mean staying in a motel and driving the guy back in the morning. 

Of course, this kind of thing wasn’t unheard of- but it had been a long week. Amy had never felt so tired in her life. Aside from this seemingly endless case, Boyle had been pushing for everyone to come to the bar for Jake’s birthday on Friday, reminding everyone to keep it a secret every ten minutes over email. In fact, Amy thought hopefully, her emails had been fairly quiet so far this evening.   
As if on cue, her phone pinged in her pocket.

“Okay, who on earth is texting you so much?” Jake glanced over at her, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. “Nobody ever tries to contact you this frequently.”

“Nobody,” she muttered, “and actually, I think you’ll find they do. I talk to plenty of people. Rosa texted me just this morning.”  
“Uh-huh?”  
“Uh-huh! We were discussing our incredibly intricate plan to have you murdered. For the sake of my sanity.” She smiled sarcastically.  
Jake rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, who is it?” He asked, then paused, before exaggeratedly gasping, his entire mouth spreading into a patronising smile. “Is it… a boy?!” 

“So what if it is?” She challenged, folding her arms.

“Let me guess.” He cleared his throat and furrowed his brow, then deepened his voice, as though he were recalling an epic romantic tale. “It was a rainy afternoon. For some reason you were both at the library. Stolen glances, romantic pauses. Finally, he asked you to prom.”

“Prom?”

“I’m so proud of you, Amy,” he smiled, not even having to look at her to sense her annoyance, “for finally finding someone who enjoys NPR podcasts and cleaning out kitchen drawers as much as you do.” He pouted in an expression of mock admiration, still, somehow, Amy noted, managing to be ever so slightly condescending. She could punch him.

“I could punch you.”

“You could, but you won’t, because you secretly adore me.” Jake pulled the car into an oncoming gas station. “You want anything from inside?” He said, nodding to the store.

Amy sighed, and looked at her watch. 6:30pm. She hadn’t eaten for at least seven hours, and they had at least another hour or so in the car. She’d burn out without realising it if she didn’t eat something soon. She’d learnt that the hard way.

“Just some candy, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” He went to fill up the tank and then headed for the store. Amy leant back in her seat, enjoying a moment of peace. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, the reds and oranges of the sunset outside casting a light across her lids that she could see even with her eyes closed. The warmth was comforting.

She couldn’t help but feel content, sat here, even knowing that she’d have to spend at least another hour or so on the road with Jake. Sure, he was annoying. Childishly zealous. Rarely mature. But there was something in his self-assured confidence and wittiness that was charming, and easy; it seemed to slot in seamlessly with her own acuity and humour. She knew, really, she supposed, that it was rare to meet someone like that. It should have been evident from the countless people she’d been introduced to who had been jarred by the mix of her sarcasm and slight self-consciousness. She was lucky to have a friend who understood and tolerated these parts of her. Maybe even liked them.

A small "hm" escaped her, realising that she’d never really thought of him as a close friend, outside of work, before. Not that she’d ever say it out loud. 

A soft knock on the window made her open her eyes. It was Jake. He pressed three packets of M&Ms against the window and pulled a face. She couldn’t help but smile- after one of their long Halloween shifts a few months back she’d been so hungry that she’d taken all the remaining bags of M&Ms she could find around the precinct, scoffing them at her desk in the early hours as she finished up her paperwork. 

“Thanks.” She smiled as he tossed them into her lap as he got back into the car. “Although, I’m not sure I can eat all of these.”

“Hey, I saw you on Halloween. Don’t underestimate yourself.” 

Just as he went to sit down, his phone started buzzing in the cupholder. He shot Amy a questioning look, and she picked it up to see who it was. 

“Your mom,” she said, holding out his phone. “Be quick, I want to get going.” 

“I’ll be five minutes.” 

She watched him pace around in front of the store for a few minutes, smiling as he chatted to his mother. Just as she was about to call him back into the car, Amy noticed his face wash over with concern. He put his hand over the receiver, clearly trying to make his voice clearer over the sound of the traffic. Stood in place, he started to fiddle with his badge, still slung round his neck. He always did, she noted, when he was uncomfortable or nervous, like a tick. He hung up and slid his phone into his pocket, walking back over to the car.

He pulled off his leather jacket, throwing it into the backseat, before getting back into the driver’s seat. 

“What happened back there?” Amy said gently. He sighed.

“I don’t- I’m not sure, in all honesty.” He said, as though his mind was preoccupied. “It sounds like my dad has been in contact with my mom, asking for money or something?” He glanced over at her, noticing her expression turn sour at the mention of his father. “I know. Anyway, I guess she’s leant him a few hundred bucks, if nothing else to keep him off. She’s pretty worried about it, I think.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Asshole.” Amy eventually murmured.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Jake slumped back against his seat, both of them now lazily sinking into the scruffy black leather of their seats. “Whatever. We need to get going.” He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, his chest rising against the creased plaid fabric of his button-down.

Amy’s chest swelled as she looked at him, sympathy and warmth for him whirring in her head. He was boyishly handsome, his whole body glowing a soft orange from the light coming through the window, only emphasising the soft swell of his lips and making his hair look even darker in contrast to the light on his face. He looked pleasantly worn down, his thick hair ruffled a little and his sleeves messily rolled around his elbows, every movement visible in the muscles in his forearms as he started up the car. A bruise just above his wrist looked notably darker in the warm light, one she recognised from a week earlier. She watched him, his eyes dark with concern as he busied himself with the car, and wondered, if only for a second, what it would be like if she could run her hands through his hair in the same way, and comfort him. Make it okay.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” She asked tenderly.

“No, don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He reached for the car stereo. “Although, it does mean I get pick of the music until we get there.” A small, mischievous smile returned to his face.

“Noooooo,” Amy groaned, secretly a little relieved at his playful taunting.

“Oh hells-yes. This is going to be the longest hour of your life. Tuck into your M&Ms and try not to cry.” His mouth spread into a huge smile as even more totally explicit rap blared through the speakers.

She smiled to herself as he bounced to the tune, pulling faces as he mimed the words.

 

***

 

“Something is definitely wrong, Jake, pull over.”

“We’re literally five minutes from the motel,” Jake muttered irritably, ignoring the loud, low rumbling coming from beneath the two of them. 

“Oh my God, we clearly have a puncture!” Amy snapped, glaring at him. “Just pull over.” 

“I can see the entrance to the motel! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” Jake hit his fist against the wheel, as though that’d make the car move any further. Finally, the car came to a halt, grumbling as it rolled reluctantly along the shoulder. “Shit.” He slumped back into his seat.

“Let’s just get inside and call the precinct. We can walk the rest.” 

Thankfully, it was a balmy spring evening, and not too dark yet either, the sky a pale blue just holding on to the remains of daylight. 

Jake was silent as they walked slowly along the edge of the road, which unnerved Amy more than she’d have liked. The amount of time she’d spent wishing he was this quiet only made it more odd. 

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” She asked quietly. Jake narrowed his eyes.

“We’re picking up our perp and driving back to Brooklyn, Santiago. Do remind me sometime how you became a detective with a memory like that, by the way.” 

“I was talking about your birthday.” She said irritably, still feeling a warmth at his attempts at sarcasm despite his evident stress.

“Oh. I don’t know. Work, I guess. Then Boyle wants to take me out in the evening, some weird foodie place on the Upper East Side.”

They approached the entrance of the motel, a dim straw-coloured light coming through the glass doors of the reception area that bleakly lit the path outside, where they stopped. 

“Call the precinct and leave a message about the car while I get the keys?” Jake asked, hand already on the door. He looked uncharacteristically exhausted, an expression of apprehension moulded onto his face now. He was still thinking about his mom.

“Sure.” She watched him wander into the small reception, worried for him.

 

***

 

Their room was tiny, somehow entirely decked out in a greenish mustard colour, and blazing hot, despite having opened the only windows in the room. Amy, sat on the bed, watched Jake tamper irritably with the radiator on the other side of the room.

“It’s busted,” he muttered, giving it a final kick. He sat on the end of the bed. “I can’t believe this whole day.”

“Hey! Be careful,” Amy snapped, pulling away a piece of paper Jake was sat dangerously close to. She was surrounded by paperwork that she’d brought with her, covering the bed. Jake ignored her, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead exasperatedly. His back was visibly tense just from where Amy sat. 

“Getting landed on an overnight trip, the car breaking down, being in the grossest, hottest room of all time, and then the cherry on the cake- being forced to share what is potentially the smallest double bed of all time with you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“Did you just volunteer to sleep on that carpet?” He gestured to the unsightly, thinning, dark green carpet that covered the floor. Amy shrugged.

“It’s too hot to sleep in a bed anyway.”

“Well, that was easy.” He stood up. “I’m having a shower, any chance I’ll actually be able to access that bed when I’m done?” He smiled sarcastically as he picked up his overnight bag, gesturing to the neat piles of paper Amy had made that were almost entirely covering the bed. 

“I just have to sign some stuff off so it’s ready for tomorrow,” she replied defensively. He widened his eyes, as though he was holding back a ‘whatever you say’, before heading for the bathroom. “Jake?”

He stopped and looked at her. She wasn’t sure what she was doing. Were they close enough for her to offer him reassurance? She’d seen him worked up before, but never stressed like this. He was trying to veil it with humour, but it was clearly still on his mind. She had a feeling this wasn’t the first time his dad had caused issues with his mom, otherwise why would it deserve a phone call? 

“What?”

“Do you want to… uh, talk about it?”

“Signing off police reports? You know, Ames, if you’re gonna try and lure me in, next time you should probably just go for a regular ol’ pick-up line.” He smiled teasingly, looking over at Amy, who only raised her eyebrows in response. He sighed. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m just being protective.”

“I’m guessing your parents’ split wasn’t particularly friendly?” She spoke softly.

“As friendly as two people can be when one of them has been cheating on-and-off for years on end,” he laughed half-heartedly. Amy’s chest swelled. She could see it hurting him even now. Somehow, though, for the first time that evening, the silence that fell between them felt acceptable. 

“If it’s any consolation, I think that, um-” Amy stammered a little, catching Jake’s attention, “well, you’re a really good guy. And I know that you would never hurt someone like that.”

Jake smiled, his big mouth splaying into that warm grin that she knew so well, looking at her carefully. Though they were on opposite sides of the room, it felt personal enough- or hot enough, perhaps- that they might as well have been directly in front of eachother. 

“You know,” Jake started, picking his towel up off the bed, “you’re not so bad either.” Amy smiled, surprised at his maturity. “Although, I should warn you that I will definitely use you calling me a really good guy in the future whenever I annoy you.” He smiled, then shrugged. “I feel like I owe it to you to let you know.” 

“That’s very mature of you,” Amy teased, watching him head for the bathroom. 

“Only way I know how.” He said, closing the door behind him.

Amy sat back into the headboard, relieved that she hadn’t made it uncomfortable or awkward by speaking to him, and warm from his immediate ability to ease the pressure off with his sense of humour. 

The shower started running in the next room. Amy started unbuttoning her blouse, realising that this was probably the ideal moment to change into the pyjamas she’d brought. She shuffled around in her bag, thankful as she pulled out a tank top and a pair of shorts. Immediately, she sighed as she realised she’d have to keep her bra on if she was going to be sharing a bed and wearing a shirt this thin, but as soon as she pulled off her blouse and felt the air on her skin she realised it was too hot for her to care.   
She pulled on her clothes and tugged her hair out of its tight bun, letting it fall over her shoulders, before beginning to rummage through her bag again for her contact lens case. 

“Ugh. Bathroom.” She groaned, now acutely aware of how dry her eyes felt. She resigned back to her paperwork, deciding Jake should be finished soon anyway. She took out her fountain pen- her smaller one, obviously, for travel- and began signing the first few documents. Within five minutes she managed three signatures. She rubbed her eyes, now eager to take out her contacts.

She marched over to the bathroom door and knocked firmly. “Jake! Come on, you’ve been in there for like fifteen minutes.” She heard the shower shut off, but there was no reply. 

“Jake!” She practically hit the door this time. She stretched, an arm on each side of the door frame, and leaned her head against the door, finally feeling how long the day had been. She could only imagine how tired Jake was.

The door clicked and opened, to reveal Jake, on his phone, about to walk out of the bathroom. In doing so, he walked straight into her, his wet chin bumping into her nose. 

“Watch it,” she snapped, rubbing her nose and glaring at him. They were centimeters apart. His hair was messy, in damp dark curls all over his head, and his entire body was still glistening with water, a dark towel loosely tied around his waist and a pleasant fragrance of shampoo and some kind of lemon-y body wash coming from his body. How his chest, and his torso, looked so firm, was a total mystery, given his diet, though she guessed almost constantly chasing down perps probably helped. She’d never seen so much of him at once.

“So, are you going to let me leave this room?” Jake’s voice was low, mostly because it didn’t need to be any louder than a murmur; they were so close he was practically whispering into her ear. The intimacy of his voice so close to her caught Amy off guard, her face flushing at the overt tension between them being so close and the embarrassment of quite clearly staring him down. She stepped aside and Jake smiled, half-apologetically, as he brushed past her. 

The bathroom was humid, that same pleasant, citrus smell filling the room. Amy took out her lenses and checked herself in the mirror. The middle of her chest, as well as her cheeks, were still flushed. She took a deep breath in, trying to squash the image of Jake fresh out of the shower from her brain.

“Aaaaaaamy,” Jake’s voice whined from the next room. She ignored him, both hands on the bathroom counter, still looking at herself in the mirror. “Amy!” She threw her head back in anguish before storming back into the room.

“What?!”

“Your paperwork.” Jake was stood by the bed, now in his navy NYPD shirt and a pair of black shorts, looking frustrated.

“Oh, right.” She hurried over. “I just need to sign one more. That one, actually,” she said, pointing at a few pages stapled together lying on a pillow. She packed the last few pieces of paper into a small binder, clearly satisfied as she tucked each set of paper into their paper wallets.

“You enjoying yourself there?”

“Even if I was, enjoying being organised is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said matter-of-factly, holding out her hand for the last piece of paper. “I just need to sign this, then we can go to bed.”

“Great.” Jake leaned back onto the pillow, waiting for her to turn off the light, or get off the bed. 

Instead, he looked up several seconds later to see her hunched over the file, eyes narrowed, still carefully scrawling out her signature.

“What, are you kidding me?” He muttered, greeted only by a shush from her in response. “What on earth are you doing?”

He sat up, leaning in to look at what she was writing. Delicately, she slid the pen into a perfect letter S. She looked up at him, jolting back a little in surprise at how close his face was. 

“What?”

“You’ve been writing ‘Amy S’ for the past minute and a half?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I… I’m just…” He was genuinely lost for words.

“It looks neat.”

“It’s just paperwork. Who’s going to read it, the Queen of England?”

“At least she’d be able to read it, Jake. Don’t even get me started on your handwriting. The months it would take to fix it,” she shuddered.

“Amy, by the time you’ve finished that thing, it’s going to be Christmas. Hell, maybe I’ll even get to spend part of a second birthday here.”

She leant down, biting her lip as she intricately inscribed the last part of ‘Santiago’. Jake sighed, only making her go slower.

“Come oooooooon.” He moaned.

“Oooo-kay. And we’re done.” Amy proudly held up the paperwork in front of her, looking at her signature. Jake looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to go to bed. Instead, she blew gently on the ink.

“Amy!” 

“The ink has to dry first! Trust me when I say you’ll want to remember how to do this.”

“I can safely assure you I am never going to forget the forty-seven hours it took you to finish writing your signature.” He looked over at her, only to see her smirking straight at him as she cautiously put the paperwork away. He rolled his eyes, still smiling. “You’re killing me,” he said softly.

“Good, die.” She smirked, putting the binder on the floor by her bag and flicking off the light. She laid down next to him.

“I thought you said you were going to sleep on the floor?” 

“I just witnessed a cloud of dust fly out of the carpet just from putting the binder down. I’ll pass. Although,” she sat up, and put a pillow between the two of them. 

“Amy, I understand that using that fountain pen probably really turned you on, but I can assure you I will not be heading in for any signature-prompted sexy times any time soon. The pillow is unnecessary.”

“Shut up,” she replied, grateful he couldn’t see her smiling. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Amy?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, for crying out loud, say you’ve already signed my birthday card.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! thank you for the response to the last chapter, it was really lovely and unexpected! I often forget how gorgeous the people in this fandom are. :) 
> 
> this chapter is longer than I had expected it to be, but I wanted to go a little deeper into this moment than I think I'd originally anticipated. I started writing this a while back so it's not all immediately linked to the signature- I loved the idea of that being the final straw, playfully irritating each other even after a- brief- moment of bonding.
> 
> please feel free to throw some prompts my way if you're so inclined ;)


	3. "Maybe. Yes. A little!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the hour or so following Jake telling Amy he wishes something could happen between them. romantic stylez.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is slightly different to the first couple of chapters, but that moment in charges and specs gets me every time and I just couldn't help myself!! especially because we don't get as much from Amy's perspective on the show. I'm not sure how I feel about this chunk of writing as a whole, but it's where it is now and I don't want to over-complicate it.

A shiver passes down Amy’s spine, making her shake slightly. Trust her to feel cold on a relatively warm spring evening. She checks her watch. Almost 11pm. Which means it’s been maybe thirty minutes, give or take, since Jake had told her he’d wished something could happen between them. Romantically.

 _Romantic stylez,_  his voice corrected her in her head.  _With a_ _‘z’_.

She sighs, leaning back against the side of her car, one arm folded and her hand in a small fist resting against her lips, deep in thought. 

The parking lot is relatively empty now, save a few squad cars and one or two belonging to staff on the night shift. Funny how less than an hour ago it couldn’t have felt more tight, standing in front of Jake.

His eyes had softened, he’d smiled almost apologetically. He had looked her straight in the eye, warmly, honestly, carefully.

_“America needs me! Bye.”_

His voice whirs around in her head, her stomach fluttering and her toes curling awkwardly in her shoes for the thousandth time in the last half an hour. An odd mixture of excitement, surprise, and confusion brings a sharp fizzing feeling in her middle. Or is that hunger? Would that Polish place still be open right now? She could kill for some potato pancakes. Oh- and some hot chocolate.

Jake.

A sharp twinge above her brow bluntly reminds her of the situation at hand. She almost applauds herself- those three seconds she spent thinking about getting food must have been the longest amount of time in the last thirty minutes she’d not spent thinking about Jake.

Jake, who is now officially undercover for another six months. Her head, as though on cue, throbs a little again.

 _You have to think through this, Amy. Just start._ She commands herself silently. What first? _Did you know he had feelings for you?_

She considers this for a second or two. It’s not as though there weren’t signs, if you looked at their relationship in romantic framework. They’re competitive, but fiercely loyal. Teasing, but genuine when necessary. They’re friends, close friends, but professionals, too- even tonight he’d respected her enough to be open about his feelings and not put her under any pressure.

Her chest warms at his maturity tonight. He’s a good man, she thinks. He’s kind, and charming, and decent. He makes her laugh more than she’d readily admit. He can tell when something’s up just by the way she’ll fidget at her desk, shooting a questioning look over at her that’s half-teasing, half-offering reassurance.

That soft breeze returns, blowing her loose hair around her face. It’s warmer this time, she notes, soothing. She breathes in slowly, relaxing a little, the air smelling of a mix of fried food, gasoline, faint cigarette smoke and the tiniest bit of urine. It’s home. It’s Brooklyn.

She reluctantly opens the door to her car, and sits herself in front of the wheel. If she leaves, she’ll have to leave this moment here, and it’ll become real. She’ll have to be without her partner for six months and she’ll have to think about how much she misses him, and what she’s going to say to him when he gets back.

If he gets back.

She shakes her head, putting her key in the ignition and feeling the low rumble of her old car coming to life around her. He’s going to be _fine_. He can’t get hurt. It’s him.

She pulls the car out of its spot and turns out onto the road.

Warm lights pass periodically over her tired face as she drives slowly under aged street lights. His voice is still in her ear.

 _If something bad goes down, I think I’d be pissed at myself if I didn’t say this_.

She flicks on the radio irritably, trying to distract herself. It’s been left on CD mode, and immediately starts to play the marching guitar riff that she recognised to start off ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)’. She rolls her eyes, trying not to laugh. Of course- Jake’s CD is still in her car. She’d driven him home almost all last week and he’d insisted on providing his own music.

The familiar Scottish vocals inadvertently make her giggle, thinking about Jake’s horrendous forced accent as he’d sing along. She bounces a little in her seat, humming along to the tune, as if Jake could see her right now. He’d laugh at her, tease her about her stupid dance moves- though he’d probably just be taken aback that she’d dance at all. They’d laugh, slightly hysterical from the exhaustion of their day at work. The light is dim but she knows she’d still be able to see that wide smile out of the corner of her eye.

She’s singing along now, surprised at how many of the words she actually knows, a breeze gently coming in from the window and licking the side of her neck, tugging one side of her hair into a wild frenzy. Normally she’d readjust it, or shut the window. Tonight, all she can think about is him.

What if she didn’t have a boyfriend right now? Would Jake even have had to word it like that? Maybe they would have properly spoken about it. Maybe he would have kissed her. She winces at the thought of it; his hands on her waist, his lips on hers, his breath on her neck, her fingers in that _hair_ -

She hits the brakes a little too hard in response to the red light in front of her, a brief squeak coming from her tyres. Here she is, a grown-ass woman- with a _boyfriend_ \- sat in her car, near to midnight, incessantly thinking about another man, and almost stalling just thinking about kissing him. Her breath hitched in her chest. Listening to one of his favourite songs. Already missing him not twenty-four hours since he’s left. She scolds herself mentally.

 _Jake_ , she pictures herself saying, calm, collected, speaking to him as soon as he gets home, like a good friend should. _Thank you very much, but_ -

Thank you very much? Who’s she speaking to, her teacher?

 _Jake. I missed you_. _But I’m still with Teddy so I don’t think we should… boink._

Boink? Where’d she pull that from? Fidgeting awkwardly in her seat, she can’t help but feel she’ll need her laptop for this one.

Finally, she reaches her apartment complex. She parks her car and pulls her bag out of the passenger seat, briefly fixated on where Jake had been sat earlier in the week. It hits her, now, reminded of him being in her car, that this won’t have been sudden. Her face flushes. He must have been considering saying this to her for at least a little while. After all, he’s never been the type for sudden emotional revelations.

Suddenly, every little smile she’s caught in the corner of her eye, every time he’s made her laugh so much her whole torso has hurt, every moment of heated competitiveness, it means more, it’s like she’s been leading him on. She cringes. The whole, brilliant point of their relationship was that it wasn’t awkward like this. Obviously, he’d never make her feel like that, but she can’t help think that his feelings must have been waiting to be spoken out loud for at least a few weeks. Maybe a couple of months. Her stomach twists as she realises it could have been even longer.

She’s not going to lie to herself and pretend like she hasn’t _thought_ about it. That’s the nature of some friendships, she thinks, slinging her bag over her shoulder and heading for the small lobby of her building. She won’t act like she hasn’t imagined what _it,_ all of it, would be like with him. Clearly, he’s good-looking, but that doesn’t mean she’d act on it; even intoxicated the worst she’s managed is some embarrassing texts and maybe a shared sloppy cab ride home or two.

Now in the lobby, she clicks the button to the elevator several times before it lights up. She can’t help but doubt the structural integrity of this thing. It had worked perfectly when she’d moved in almost ten years ago, otherwise she wouldn’t have chosen this place. She tries to dismiss the thought of coming home with Jake, the way he might let her lean against him on the way up, the way he’d sit himself on her couch after a night out or share food with her after a long shift. He’s actually been round here more than her current boyfriend, she realises, but only because they’ve been friends longer.

The elevator doors open, and she steps in, pressing the button for the fourth floor. It reluctantly heaves itself upwards, and as she steps out onto the landing, she already feels a bit calmer, thinking of the bottle of wine and leftover food in her fridge and the soft grey throw folded at the end of her couch, the pyjamas that she left on the towel rack in her bathroom so they’d be warm when she got home.

She drops her bag by her coffee table as soon as she walks through the door, pushing off her shoes and heading straight for her kitchen. Pouring herself some wine, she takes what might be a regrettably big gulp were she not so nervous, excited, and confused from the day she’s had. She heads for the bathroom and pulls off her clothes, tugging on her- now lusciously warm- grey sweatpants and her navy NYPD sweatshirt, easily the softest thing she owned. She wanders back into the living area, scooping up her wine glass and flopping down on the sofa. Her laptop, on the end table, is easy to slide onto her lap.

Starting by outlining the things that have happened today which she knows will affect her can’t be a bad way to begin, she thinks, anxiously looking at the flashing line on the margin. A trusty list. An outline.

 _Santiago style_ , he teases in the back of her head.

 

**1) My best friend is leaving for six months.**

She blinks at the screen. It looks so much more harsh like this.

  * **My best friend is leaving for six months, and will be totally isolated, and will also potentially be put into danger.**



She feels a lump in her throat start to form as she tops off the last of this glass of wine.

  * **He has feelings for me, and I might have feelings for him too, even though I have a boyfriend who’s really nice-**



A warm tear spills onto her cheek. She’s an idiot. It’s too simple.

He’s her best friend. He’s warmth, and light, and bright colours, and laughing so hard you almost cry. He’s the excitement and fulfilment of that first sip of beer celebrating finally closing that case you’ve been working. He’s gummy bears wrapped in a fruit roll-up and hoodies under leather jackets and the satisfaction of eating takeout as Die Hard hums softly from your TV in the background, feeling safe and content and whole.

And he’s left.

She looks away from her laptop and out of the window distractedly. At some point she’ll have to address this, properly. Jake deserves that. Teddy deserves that. Yes, maybe she likes him, at least a little, but a romantic relationship means something very different. His messiness and immaturity would eventually drive her insane. He wouldn’t get why she _needs_ all the books she has and why her filing system works so well. Their work relationship would never be the same- Holt might even be disappointed. Her heart races in her chest, a slight panic at the thought of it all. There’s safety in Teddy.

Lifting her glass to her lips, she lets the last couple of drops of rosé slowly drop into her mouth. Her eyes absently gaze over the lights of cars outside, and as her mind finally slows for the first time that day, she starts to fall asleep, the faint, familiar image of scruffy dark hair and a playful smile still in the back of her mind.


	4. "No, no, no. No shampoo, that's the worst."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amy santiago = trashed / jake peralta = actual cinnamon roll 
> 
> cue hair-washing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I HAD to go in for the hair-washing eventually. taking that line from s3e1 was a little far-fetched, I know, but hey, all for the sake of sticking to the original premise of this series, am I right?
> 
> this was actually written in like a couple of hours originally but took me ages to feel like it was right, so I kept going back to it over and over again. definitely going to take my time with whatever comes next so it doesn't take as long to get it posted!!
> 
> lots of love <3

“Has anyone seen Amy?” Charles shuffles clumsily through a small group of people to a dimly lit booth at which Rosa and Gina are sat. He awkwardly places four beers on the table, two in each hand.

“Dance-off.” Rosa picks up her beer and nods towards the dancefloor, where Terry is furiously dancing the funky chicken a few feet in front of Amy, who is staring him down competitively. Gina is stood between them, clapping her hands as though to keep them in time, occasionally yelling motivation at both of them. A small crowd has gathered round them to watch, cheering as Terry switches it up into the hustle.

“Again?” Charles takes a gulp of his beer. He inelegantly slips into the booth, facing Rosa. “What about Jake?”

“Had to pee.” Rosa’s deadpan gaze is still focused on Amy and Terry, whose moves are getting more complex by the second, the crowd around them waning. Charles can’t tell whether she’s entertained or perplexed.

On rare occasions, should anyone last until Shaw’s closing- 1am, that is- they’d get a cab to a larger bar in Williamsburg, with, much to everyone’s drunken delight, a huge dancefloor and two bars. Rosa had credit for finding the place; it was pleasantly busy, but never crowded, the drinks were cheap, and it was open until 5- not that they ever made it that long.

Jake appears, stumbling slightly into the booth, almost-empty beer in hand. He spots the beer Charles has just bought, downs the one in his hand, and picks up the one on the table. He looks around, his brow furrowed as he notices Terry and Amy’s absence.

“Dance-off?” He asks, to which Rosa and Charles nod quickly. “C’mon you guys, get up. Let’s dance,” he grins, shimmying from side to side, sipping his beer.

 “I don’t know, Jakey, it’s getting kind of late-“

“I’ll request Kokomo.”

“I’m in!” Charles jumps up excitedly, following Jake to the dancefloor, where a dizzying array of different coloured lights are swirling around. Some DJ is mixing Me So Horny with a heavy beat, to which Amy and Terry are still furiously popping and locking. Charles holds out both their beers with one hand, both of which are quickly taken from his hand before the dance-off resumes.

“Come on, guys, wrap it up, Jake’s going to get the DJ to take our requests!”

“Terry’s tired of this weak competition anyway,” Terry responds, shooing away Amy, who scowls.

“You _wish_ that was weak competition,” she jibes, smirking, before taking a swig of her beer.

“Amy, how many drinks have you had? I lost count!” Gina yells, a look of fright on her face.

“I don’t know?!” Amy looks at her, eyes wide, suspicion flashing over her face.

Gina gasps dramatically, both hands thrown to her mouth.

“Have you bypassed the sasquatch?” She looks at Amy in a mix of awe and confusion. “How are you still alive?”

Amy shrugs, downing what’s left in her bottle.

“Maybe I can handle more than you think,” she pushes her face forward, staring at Gina as she starts dancing again.

“Oh no, uh-uh, I’ve seen this before,” Gina shakes her head. “She’s not going to feel it and then she’s gonna blow like a fire hydrant. Spewing. Everywhere.”

Terry and Charles scowl, disgusted, thankful for Jake pushing his way back towards them. He’s still bouncing to the music, somehow looking more ruffled than before, down to a dark green t-shirt that’s a little too tight, his hair messy and a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from the evening so far.

“We have Kokomo in five,” he announces proudly, before realising he’s only talking to Charles and Terry. “Gina? Amy?”

“Gina went back to the booth, and Amy’s, well-” Charles widens his eyes as he looks at Amy, who could easily be mistaken for someone waving for help as she wriggles around on the dancefloor. Jake follows his gaze, before grinning once he sees her, spurring amusement and fondness in his chest. He takes out his phone and films her for about twenty seconds before he notices Charles’ disapproving expression.

“What? It’s not like I’d send it to anyone except her. I want to embarrass her, not ruin her life,” he says indignantly.

“Teasing is teasing.” Charles winks. Jake rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

“I haven’t seen her this wasted in a good few years, okay? It’s worth documenting.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I gotta go!” Terry starts, anxiously checking his watch. “I have to be up in six hours to take the twins to their breakfast book club before work. I’ll see you guys!” He unties his shirt from his waist and slips it over his vest, before giving Jake a brief pat on the back and walking through the crowd and towards the booth to get his things.

“Such a good dad,” Charles says under his breath, not taking his eyes off Terry. “I think this has been a pretty successful evening!” He chirps happily to Jake, who smiles.

“It’s not been bad, no.” He replies. He’s still watching Amy, who is throwing her head back and forth, her loose dark hair soaring gloriously around her as she dances by herself, completely content and happy.

“And you’ve been _catharting_!” Charles says satisfied, nudging his shoulder. “I’m proud.”

“It’s been, like, a month and a half since Sophia broke up with me.” Jake corrects him, still smiling nonetheless. “But you’re right.” He pats Charles on the back.

“Hey, you never know, maybe you’ll find someone at the wedding next week! That’s what makes single life so exciting!”

“Maybe, Charles.” He smiles appreciatively at his friend, warmed by his tipsy friendliness.

 _‘Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I want to take ya-’_  The lights darken before rising up again, swirling in a kaleidoscope of colours, signifying a new song.

“BERMUDA, BAHAMA, COME ON PRETTY MAMA!” Charles’ face lights up as he starts singing along to his favourite melody, Jake laughing as he watches him begin to undulate his hips in what he can’t help but notice is an incredibly sexual dance move.

***

“I’m so cold. Maybe I should dance some more to warm up,” Charles complains, rubbing his folded arms aiming to quell the chill of the New York in the early hours.

A dismissing hubbub of “no” and “please don’t” arises from the group at the reminder of his moves from earlier in the evening.

Stood outside the bar, waiting for a taxi, the group is particularly quiet, all wearing a similar expression of exhaustion. Aside from Gina, that is, who is sipping on a martini which, it can only be assumed, she has stolen from the bar, and is glued to her phone. Rosa is staring at Gina, Jake notes, perhaps trying to figure out who she’s texting at this ungodly hour.

Finally, a cab rolls up to the rank, the engine purring softly.

“Okay, so, Amy, Gina, me, Jake, then Charles?” Rosa lists off the order that they’ll drop everyone off before she slides into the front seat. “Oh, by the way, shotgun.”

“Hey, not fair-“ Jake starts, at which point a violent hurling sound comes from beneath all of them. They all look down.

Leaning over the sidewalk, Amy is aggressively throwing up into the gutter, spluttering and groaning as each brief wave of puke comes up. Rosa, cursing under her breath, immediately rushes to pull her hair away from her face, scowling at the amount of vomit she’s managing to produce.

“Called it! I called that. You guys owe me two hundred bucks.” Gina smiles curtly as Jake and Charles watch on, disgusted.

“A little help here?” She hisses, and Jake and Charles both run over to help Amy into the cab.

“There’s not a chance in hell I’m sitting on her lap while she’s like that,” Gina remarks, looking to and from the four seats available for the five of them in the taxi. “Charles, you’re as small as me, you can sit on Jake’s lap instead.”

“That’s great!” Charles playfully punches Jake’s shoulder. “I’ve got an especially warm butt, so you don’t need to worry, Jake.” Jake screws up his face, trying to ignore him, as they pile into the cab.

The driver, a short, stout man, holds up a plastic bag, looking worriedly at Amy, who barely seems conscious.

“Y’need this?” He offers it to Amy. Rosa, sat in the middle, snatches it out of his hands and opens it, putting it on Amy’s lap. “Where’re we headed first?”

“Concord Street, just outside Brooklyn Heights,” Jake pipes up a little too quickly, concerned as he looks over at Amy. Rosa raises her eyebrows at him inquisitorially. He shrugs defensively.

Amy groans softly.

“Please don’t judge me,” she whimpers, before choking up a little more into the bag.

Rosa looks particularly awkward holding her hair, looking disgusted as she tries to look away from the messy Walmart bag directly next to her.

“Guys, we’re going to have to get her into her apartment together. She’s too messy.” She mumbles, wincing as Amy groans.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Oh, god…” Amy is practically whispering now, before she coughs and another wave of vomit manages to escape her. Everyone groans, Gina and Jake hastily rolling their windows down.

***

“Okay, up we go!” Jake hoists Amy up out of the cab, one of her arms slung over his shoulders, the other around Rosa. She moans uncomfortably at the sudden elevation, only exacerbating her queasiness.

“Charles, Gina, the doors,” Rosa nods forward, and Charles scurries forward to open the doors to Amy’s building.

“Okay, all hands on deck,” Gina instructs casually, “Rosa, I need you to get Amy’s pyjamas and something to take off her makeup.”

“Easiest job,” Rosa smirks, “she’s so organised it’s almost impossible to _not_ find something here.”

“Boyle, find something that’ll calm her stomach.”

“Hm. She needs to replace the sugars and salts she’s lost from being sick, do we think she has any candy or chips or anything?”

“She keeps a jar of hard candies on her dresser, the antique one in the hall,” Jake says.

Rosa and Charles both look at him, a small smile on Charles’ face. “What?” he protests, clearing his throat a little awkwardly.  “The few times I’ve been here the old-lady candies have been virtually the only edible food I’ve been able to find.”

“They’re not…” Amy murmurs, speaking for the first time in a good forty-five minutes, “they’re not old-lady candies.”

“Of course, the first time she’s able to string words together in almost an hour, and it’s to argue back.” Gina rolls her eyes.

“To argue back with _Jake_ -” Charles beams.

“Boyle.” Jake interrupts.

The elevator seems to grumble around them as it heaves its way up to Amy’s floor. Amy seems to be able to hold herself a little better now, straightening herself up when she can and alternating between leaning on Jake and Rosa’s chests.

Just as they approach the front door, led by Gina, Amy begins to groan again.

“Quickly,” she mumbles, feeling queasiness rising in her stomach again. Everyone scrambles around her trying to let her through, and as soon as the door opens, she bolts, running past Gina and straight to the bathroom, the faint sound of her spluttering audible from her living room.

“Jake, go make sure she doesn’t drown in her own vomit, we’ll handle the rest.” Gina lazily pushes him towards the bathroom as she heads for the kitchen, Rosa making a beeline for the bedroom and Charles’ eyes already searching for the candies on Amy’s dresser.

Jake walks cautiously to the bathroom, fidgeting with the front of his shirt as he thinks about being alone with her for a good five minutes or so while everyone else gets her stuff. It’s not that anything especially romantic is going to happen, he thinks, what with her emptying her insides into her toilet, but he’s worried about her, and he doesn’t want to freak her out or be embarrassed.

The image he sees when he reaches the bathroom is one he’ll never forget. Her hair is splayed over the toilet seat, her back visibly heaving a little as she retches, her whole body limp against the wall next to the toilet. His chest aches with sympathy- he’s seen her drunk before, but never in a state where she’s not even been able to pretend she’s fine. The image of the most in-control woman in his life like this stirs an unpleasant discomfort around in his stomach. She flushes the toilet and leans against the wall, her hair in a mop around her face.

“Ames?” He walks over to her slowly. “Hey, are you okay?”

She looks back up at him, and he feels even worse. The top of her pale blue blouse is slightly soggy, some of the edge of her hair has vomit in it, and, worst of all, she’s trying desperately hard- and failing- not to cry. It’s not even the kind of uncontrollable drunk crying you’d expect after the amount she’s had- she looks cruelly sobered by this, a tear now on the side of her nose from the way she’s been lying, and another spilling hastily from her eye as she looks up to him.

He’s only seen her cry a few times up til now, and most of those uncommon instances have been due to allergies or, once, a very twisted ankle obtained chasing a perp, but only once like this. He doesn’t remember the specifics- it was early in their career together- but it was a boyfriend, a long-term one, and the split had been messy. He hadn’t known what to do, instead resorting to trying to make her laugh as much as he could in the days that followed. He wishes he could do that now, but everything’s a little too disordered for that to even be an option.

What he wants to do, however, is simple; he’d squeeze her tight, teasing her with something stupid, and feel her genuine laugh against his chest, and then she’d go back to herself, stubborn and argumentative and markedly witty and bright, and it would all be okay. But right now he can hardly find the words to talk to her, let alone to make her laugh.

As if intuitively, Jake finds himself down next to her and begins to rub her back, in a way that he hopes is at least slightly soothing, and pulls a scrunch of tissue from the holder, offering it to her. She looks back at him for a moment, as if hesitant, then takes it from his hand, her cold, slightly clammy fingers brushing against his.

“I’m so embarrassed.” She mumbles quietly.

“Me too,” he says, watching her face respond in confusion. “Before you started crying you looked really good, which has made me realise I’m kind of in love with girls wearing their own barf.”

“Ugh, Jake, gross,” she hits him in the arm, but he feels an ounce of relief at the tiny smile she’s trying to stifle as she says it.

“Seriously though, don’t stress. Everyone gets messy sometimes. At least it wasn’t all for nothing,” he offers, to which she furrows her brow in confusion. “The dance moves you were pulling earlier? Absolute gold.”

She groans, chuckling weakly.

“Everything’s spinning,” she mumbles. “Hold it still.” Jake tries to listen to her, but it becomes clear that she’s still pretty woozy, and as a result, almost entirely incoherent.

“Hey, I brought stuff for you to change into, plus your candy and crap.” Rosa drops a pile of things in between Jake and Amy. “Oh, and here’s a glass of water and an Advil.” She puts them on the sink.

“Thank you, my tall, dark, motorcycle friend,” Amy says, without opening her eyes. Rosa grimaces at Jake.

“FYI, Gina is currently going through your Netflix account and changing all the ratings you’ve given each of the shows you’re watching.”

“Oh.” Amy tries to look up, brushing some of her hair out of her face. She feels a stickiness in the loose strands, and is almost sick again when she realises what’s in her hair. “Oh, god.” She groans, leaning forward against her knees. “My hair,” she drunkenly whispers.

“Wash it out.” Rosa says it as if it’s obvious, before turning to leave. “Okay, Jake, we’re leaving in five, get her to drink all that water so she can make it to bed without choking up her digestive system.”

Jake looks back at Amy, whose eyes are glossed over as she looks wearily at the piles of things her colleagues have collected for her.

“You guys go,” he says. Amy’s head shoots up. “This is all going to take a while and I know where everything is here anyway. I can make sure she’s got food for the morning that hasn’t been sat in her fridge since last year.”

“Jake, you don’t have to-“ Amy interjects.

“Don’t worry, you’ll need a Peralta breakfast with the hangover you’re going to have, anyway.” He looks at Amy, who doesn’t respond.

“Sure?” Rosa asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll see you guys Sunday.”

They sit quietly as the others leave Amy’s apartment, faint noises coming from the living area as they all start to leave.

“Here,” Jake says quietly, offering her the glass of water and the Advil that Rosa left on the sink.

“Thanks,” she responds, taking a sip. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” She opens her eyes, trying to focus on him.

“It’s not a big deal. In fact, I actually drank quite a bit myself, so I’m kind of going through the sobering up process with you, if that makes you feel any better.”

They sit in a tired silence, the only noises filtering into the room being the noise of the city outside. Jake’s legs are stretched out in front of him as he leans against the wall, Amy’s plonked awkwardly between them as she tucks her knees into her chest.

“Um,” she starts, her slightly croaky voice breaking the quiet. Jake tilts his head questioningly. “Would you help me wash the, uh,” she points at her hair, “this?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, leaning back against the wall in relief at the thought of feeling a little more clean. “You’re so…uh,” she relaxes, “good.”

Jake’s breath hitches in his chest. He looks at her, as though there might be a visual indication of what she means by this.

“You know, Boyle would love this, he’s so creepy about the whole hair-washing thing,” he says- mostly to distract himself- getting up onto his knees and pulling Amy’s showerhead down from its holder on the wall. “Ames?”

“Oh,” she croaks, realising she’ll have to crawl over to the tub. She moves slowly over to him, on all fours, then props herself up on the edge. “Like this?” She asks gently. They’re close now, face to face, his nervous eyes looking straight into hers.

“Yeah, that’s good, put your hands on the rail in the tub so you can lean back.” She does as he says and he turns the shower on, rolling up his sleeves so he can test the temperature of the water. “Ready?” he asks quietly, watching her as she nods wordlessly.

It’s at this point that he realises he’ll have to touch her face, becoming a little shifty as he brings the showerhead up to her head. She shuts her eyes, like a child, anticipating the water, as he holds it over her temple, watching the water run through the side of her hair. Her chest relaxes, visibly lowering, as though the water is calming her down. He feels a tightness in his chest as he watches her youthful, peaceful reaction.

Gently, he runs his fingers through her hair with some shampoo, making absolutely sure she’s totally clean, picturing the stress she’ll find herself under if she could smell her sick in her hair the next morning.

“Jake?” Her voice makes him jump.

“Don’t worry, I’m almost done.”

“You’re my best friend. And good… man. A good man.” She says this with more confidence, as if she’s finally sure of what she’s saying.

He’s not sure, this time, why this sends a pang of warmth through his chest- it’s not like he didn’t know that they were close friends. Hearing her say it, though, and admiring him, is something entirely different. He wonders silently if she’ll even remember this tomorrow.

“And,” she lifts her arm, as if to say she’s not finished,  “ _she_ didn’t deserve you,” she adds, opening her eyes, looking up at him sincerely.

He pauses. She’s still, her dark eyes looking unaffectedly but innocently sympathetic, kind, and full. Uncertain of how to respond, but certain of the small lump in his throat telling him how much it means to him, he wraps his hands around her and pulls her up into a hug.

At first she doesn’t respond, but then he feels her arms wrap around his shoulders and she tightens the gap between them. His face is in her wet hair, the skin on her neck is clammy, and he can smell the vomit on her shirt, but he doesn’t care, because it’s _her_ , and even totally inebriated she understands and complements him.

They break apart, a comfortable quiet falling between them.

“I’ll leave you here so you can change,” he nods over to the pile of clothes still on the floor, “I’ll get you some more water before you go to bed, too, otherwise you’re going to kill me in the morning for not forcing you to drink it.” He stands up. “Angry Amy Santiago is one thing, and Angry Hungover Amy Santiago is a whole other level of frightening, so,” he nods and turns for the door.

She smiles gratefully up at him and watches him close the bathroom door behind him, before she starts to ineptly unbutton her slightly soggy blouse in lieu of a baggy white shirt Rosa has left her.

Although it might take her a good half an hour to get dressed, she takes her advil quickly and sips at her water as she does it, feeling her aggravated body start to neutralise itself again.

She tells herself it’s nothing to do with him, but knows she’s wrong when she walks back into her living room and sees him passed out on the couch, mouth slightly parted in his deep sleep.

***

Amy Santiago is not a morning person. Anyone would think otherwise, but her brain has always felt a little like glue until at least 10am, and it’s half the reason she’s so anxious about being on time to everything; one slip up in her routine and she won’t be able to think until the mid-afternoon.

Waking up splayed sideways across her couch with Jake Peralta underneath her, she’ll admit, is a slight slip-up in the Saturday morning routine.

Resting against his chest, her grey throw messily tugged over them, she doesn’t need to see him to know who he is; as soon as her mind begins to seep back into consciousness she knows, from the faint, familiar, inviting smell of his cologne, and the occasional snore in the back of his throat.

As if all at once, Amy remembers why he’s even here in the first place; her head pounds, her stomach aches emptily, and panic sets in as she tries to remember what the last few hours of her night had involved. Indistinct images of swirling lights, the Beach Boys, and being sick brings a sinking feeling into her stomach, a horrendous concoction of nausea, exhaustion, and embarrassment. She remembers being in her bathroom, and Jake being there, and she’s not sure exactly what either of them said but she knows, almost intrinsically, that he took care of her.

A slight groan escapes her throat as she shifts herself around, her back aching a little from sleeping on the couch. She mentally thanks every star in the sky that she doesn’t have to go into work today as her head pounds even more. Jake yawns, his chest rising underneath her.

“Morning, alcoholic.” He grumbles, his low voice deliciously sleepy. Barely even awake yet and he’s teasing her, she thinks. She’s thankful he knows her apartment as well as he does just from being here working late on cases and sharing takeout, otherwise she knows she’d feel the pressure of being a polite host.

“That bad?”

“You know that hurling part in _The Exorcist_?”

“Oh, god,” she groans, “I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to stay.”

“Well,” he says, lifting himself wearily off the sofa, “someone was going to have to wash the gallons and gallons of barf out of your hair.”

Amy’s hands shoot straight to her head, where, sure enough, slightly damp hair meets her fingers. It all comes flooding back now.

“Why did you… um, why did you do that for me?”

“You’re my friend,” he says indignantly, as if it’s a no-brainer. Her heart warms a little. “Coffee?” He’s taken a small sachet from her cupboard and has paused next to her coffee maker.

“Yes, please. Thank you.” She pulls the throw back up around her shoulders.

“Extraordinarily polite even at your worst.”

“Hey, rude.” She quips. He grins roguishly as he busies himself with the coffee machine.

She watches him, sleepily moving around her kitchen as though it’s his own, and, for the first time, doesn’t even try to squash the fluttering in her stomach arising as her gaze settles on his messy hair and childish smile.


	5. "I bought orange soda for you!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy Santiago, the worst cook of all time with a kitchen that has so little food it's a disaster, decides she wants to make Jake Peralta breakfast = it's so fluffy I'm gonna die!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these nerds are so horrendously in love and I hate everything
> 
> I wrote this in about an hour and have pretty much left it as it is because it wasn't meant to be thought-out or intricate or anything like that- I wanted it to be as slightly awkward and imprecise as moments like this are, if that makes any sense.
> 
> also- some of the comments you guys have been leaving... man. you lot know how to make someone's day, is all I'm saying <3
> 
> enjoy my lovelies

A clatter followed by some choice cursing is what wakes a groggy Jake Peralta up. As he stirs his body lazily stretches out over the pale sheets beneath him, which smell faintly of detergent and the mix of jasmine and orange which signifies his girlfriend was there only hours ago.

“Shit! Ass! For the love of…”

His girlfriend, who is currently swearing like a sailor in the next room.

Rolling over, his body is embraced by the fresh cold of Amy’s side of the bed, which, he realises, as he groggily opens his eyes, means she’s been awake for a little while. Now on his front, face buried in the side of her pillow, he uses his arms to push himself up and look at the alarm clock- 10:43am.

Sitting up, he looks around Amy’s room and realises quickly that she’s made her side of the bed, the sheets crisp and neatly folded accordingly. A chilly breeze passes over his neck, making him shiver- he breathes it in, deep, and notices that it’s raining. He lies back down and pulls her comforter over his shoulders.

Another rattle comes from the kitchen.

“Damn thing… God!”

He props himself up on his shoulders, tying to look out of the bedroom into the hall, hoping there’ll be some indication of what on earth she’s trying to do. He slips out of bed, and starts to leave the room, before quickly turning back and tentatively pulling the sheets over his side of the bed and putting his pillow over the top, rearranging her throw as neatly as he can. The result is scruffy, he thinks, but given that it’s the first time he’s attempted to make a bed in years, it could be a lot worse.

Moments like this are not rare- right now, anyway. They’ve only been dating for a month or so, and despite having been round each other’s places so many times before, it’s suddenly unchartered territory. Jake’s woken up at Amy’s a handful of times before this- once after a case, once after the squad brought her home drunk, the first few times they slept together at hers, and this morning- and he still feels like he’s intruding a little on her space. He’s never felt afraid to make himself at home, but with Amy’s place it’s different- he doesn’t want to do anything wrong or get any Jake on anything.

Parts of her home he’d never go near are, instantaneously, open to him- he’s in her bed, his body wrapped around hers, and he learns quickly how cold she always is. He’s in her drawers, his pair of sweats that she’s folded up for him and put with her jumpers and cardigans, and he’s introduced to what he calls the Santiago System- that is, her organisational process- as applied to her dresser. He’s in her bathroom, a toothbrush in her glass pot next to her neatly lined up products, and he’s been in there at the same time as her, underdressed and sleepy and close to her, unable not to admire her as she takes out her contacts and lets down her hair from its tight ponytail, watching it fall over her shoulders.

It’s new, and it’s scary, and it’s wonderful.

“C’mon!” Amy’s voice comes again from the kitchen.

“Ames?” His voice is more croaky than he allowed for, a little hoarse given that he’s only just woken up.

“Oh, hey,” she says as he comes through the hall and into the kitchen. She’s stood, sheepishly, in the button-down Jake wore here last night, with cleaning supplies all around her feet, the cupboard under her sink seeming to spill its contents onto the floor. “I didn’t realise you were awake.”

“You okay?” Jake smiles, trying hard to ignore the way his shirt is skirting over the top of her thighs. “Kinda sounded like a burglar was in here, or something.”

“And you didn’t get out of bed?”

“Let’s not pretend you wouldn’t be able to handle it by yourself.”

Amy smirks to herself, and Jake swears she even blushes a little.

“Coffee?”

“Yes please,” he looks at the cleaning supplies crowding her feet. “That is, provided you’re able to escape.”

“I was trying,” she steps awkwardly out of the pile that’s accumulated around her, “to find my reusable grocery bags.”

“You have reusable grocery bags?”

“They last forever! Plus it’s more environmentally responsible.” She says, obviously, as if that’s what he’s thinking too. “I keep them in a holder on the inside of the cupboard but it’s fallen down and they’re buried in my cleaning stuff.”

“Right. How many apartments _are_ you cleaning, by the way?” He jibes, slipping his arm round her waist when she rolls her eyes. “Wait, why did you need your grocery bags?”

She slumps against his chest, laughing tensely.

“I was… well, I was going to try and make you breakfast,” she starts, and Jake could swear the warmth that rushes through him is so concentrated that she can probably feel it where she’s leaning on him. “I started looking for food- I figured I’d at least have some eggs, or something- but I didn’t have anything, so…”

“You were going to go the store.”

“Yeah.” She seems almost embarrassed.

“That’s really sweet.”

“Shut up.”

They stand for a couple of seconds, looking over the mess that she’s managed to make.

“You go to the store, I’ll sort out all of this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure, how hard can it be?”

She kisses him awkwardly on the jaw and walks over to her hamper in the hall, where she pulls out a pair of leggings and starts to put them on.

“Oh, and,” she says, a rushed grin on her face, “I have a chart, in case you get lost.”

“A chart?”

“Mm-hm. Inside of the door,” she says, slipping into a pair of flats and grabbing her purse. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, tops, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, smiling, trying not to feel a little overwhelmed. As soon as she shuts the door behind her, he drops down to the cupboard, looking for her chart.

It’s been made on a word document, and it’s laminated. Each colour corresponds to a plastic tub on the inside, each with different labels, and contains a list of things that it should contain: _Products_ , which is full of anything she’s bought from the store to clean- this is easily the biggest tub- including bleach, polish, various sprays, refills for her soap dispensers, trash bags, the works.

The second is _Misc_ , which he reminds himself to tease her about later, after a famous spat a couple of years ago when she told him that there’s “a category for _everything_ , Jake”, after he pestered her about her desk. Everyone needs a random crap box, Jake thinks. It just happens that this box, for him, is his entire apartment.

This container, untouched, is full of neatly organised manuals, three boxes full of batteries- all the sizes you could need- and a couple of old TV remotes, stacked neatly. Of course, Amy Santiago’s random crap box is the most beautifully organised thing he’s ever seen.

The third box is _Tools_ , which is almost empty. He looks behind him, and realises that this was probably meant for all the sponges, cloths, and weird bristle-y type things currently lying on the kitchen floor. Next to this tub is _DIY_ , a little tray, with a miniature toolkit, some tealights, and a box of matches.

Carefully, he puts everything back, looking cautiously at the chart each time, even though he knows exactly where everything’s supposed to go. Halfway through re-stacking _Tools_ , he pulls a small case, almost like a plastic tissue box, out from in-between the little space between the tubs.

“The grocery bags,” he says out loud, trying not to admire the idea behind this little contraption, before he hooks it back onto its clips on the side of the cupboard.

Sitting back, finally finished, he looks at the clock on Amy’s microwave- she’s been gone ten minutes. He stands up, looking at her kitchen. Maybe he should try and fix some stuff up while he’s here, he thinks, taking a bottle of what he thinks is some kind of soapy spray from the cupboard.

He sprays down the counters and, with a cloth, wipes them down carefully, making sure there’s no suds left on the counter. It only takes him a couple of minutes, so he heads back to the bedroom, and tries to fix his sheets, tugging them at the sides so that they’re as neat as hers.

Just as he’s about to go and fix up the bathroom, he stops himself. He feels a little stupid, standing here, cleaning his girlfriend’s apartment- not because he feels like he shouldn’t be doing it, but because something’s nagging at him, something very self-aware and nervous and difficult, nauseatingly churning a little in his empty stomach.

The truth of the matter is, Jake Peralta always falls the hardest, and always falls first. He’s always too much, and he knows it; his relatively few serious relationships in the past have all proved the same thing, no matter how relaxed he’s tried to be- even with Sophia, he’d known he’d loved her at least a couple of weeks before he’d let it slip, and it was still too soon, even though they’d been together months.

Amy has been on his mind for years, achingly seeping in and out, which frightens him, because as far as he’s concerned, he’s comparatively fresh in her mind as a romantic partner; he’s pretty sure that she had feelings for him just before he went undercover, and they’ve had a long friendship, but he can’t reasonably take any of that to confirm that she’s liked him the way he knows he’s liked her.

The idea of messing it up by being too overbearing, this time, is one of the worst things imaginable. His stomach twists again as he puts away the spray he’d taken. He’s fallen for her, hard, and he knows it, and he’s half-scared and half-excited and completely aware that he’s never felt like this before.

Amy’s key rattling in the door makes him jump. He rushes over to the door and pulls it open.

It’s at this moment he realises, for the first time in his life, that maybe, perhaps, he doesn’t need to worry about going overboard.

Amy Santiago has so many grocery bags in her arms that she’s startlingly out of breath, her arms red from the pressure of everything she’s- somehow- managing to carry. Her face and chest are flushed pink from the brisk chill outside, her hair is slightly damp from the drizzle, and she actually looks a little nervous.

“I got a few different things, because I wanted to make sure there was, y’know,” She slows, letting him take a few bags off her arms, chuckling a little at his incredulous grin, “everything, here… for you… y’know, just in case…” She stops when she realises he’s staring at the bags on the counter. “Help me unpack?” She says slightly uneasily.

“Sure,” he says quietly, still smiling. He starts pulling items out of the first bag he sees. Eggs, and bacon, and bread, and towards the bottom of the bag, he finds several packs of various gummy candies. “Amy?” He holds them up, looking over at her.

“Yeah?” She forges a nonchalance, busying herself with another bag, but he’s well aware she’s been watching him.

“I am so, _so_ into you.” He smiles smugly.

She looks at him now, eyes open, and dark, and a little more relaxed.

“If I’d have realised that was as easy as buying you gummy worms I would have done this a while ago,” she mutters, but she immediately stiffens, realising the implication of what she just said.

Jake’s not sure how quickly it happens, but he knows that in an instant, he’s kissing her, an arm pulling her back up towards him and his hand round her neck, and it’s by far the most intimate, gentle kiss he’s ever had in his life, and he’s grateful, because- he’s pretty certain- Amy Santiago just admitted that she’s liked him for _a while_ , and that’s not revolutionary, or even a big surprise, but it means a lot to him, or so he thinks, his tummy fluttering excitedly.

“Do I get a celebration like that for every Jake-esque item I pull out of these bags?” She murmurs quietly as they break away.

“How many are we talking?”

“Well,” she says, an excited grin coming back to her face, “I’m pretty proud of this one,” and all of a sudden she’s digging around in a bag on the floor.

She stands up, and presents, like it’s an award, a huge bottle of orange soda.

“They didn’t have Orangina, but-”

“You are the greatest woman alive,” he grins, taking it from her hands and pressing a kiss against her forehead. “By the way, Orangina is, like, totally different to orange soda.”

“Whatever you say, numb-nut.”

“Did you just call me a numb-nut?” He’s already pouring himself some soda. Amy sticks out her tongue in response. “You’d better be making me the best breakfast of all time to make up for that _extremely_ hurtful remark.”

After they’ve cleared the groceries, and she’s convinced him to stop drinking soda first thing in the morning, they’re both in the kitchen, making eggs and bacon and toast and tea, and Jake knows how cliché it all is, feeding her food and stealing kisses and gently pulling his shirt off her as she sits on the counter and kisses him so carefully, so sweetly.

And, he thinks, her fingers in his hair, he doesn’t care at all.


	6. "Are you saying I knocked you up?!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a classic case of the maybe-baby, ft. your two favorite dorks!

Amy Santiago knows she is, to say the least, an organised person. She always has a plan, and if she doesn’t, you can bet she’s finalising one. If this isn’t evident just from speaking to her for more than five minutes, perhaps a quick look at her three organisers or the procedure she uses to clean her desk will do the trick. Since the age of thirteen she’s been certain of where she’s going, how she’s going to get there, and exactly how much she wants it.

 

Jacob Peralta, gorgeous-hot-mess-slash-lovely boyfriend, was the first major hitch in this plan. It’s not as though she can’t handle dating; she’s done it plenty of times before, obviously- and had actually deliberately integrated it into her life in her mid-twenties so she’d be able to progress in her career seamlessly when the time came for those major promotions. Common sense. If not slightly awkward for the guy involved, who had to organise their dates according to a thoroughly thought-out calendar which would obviously blend their lives together seamlessly. Poor Matt.

 

Plus, it’s getting easier now that they’ve moved in together. Amy knows as well as anyone else- that is, anyone else who’s read the guidelines on maintaining a professional work relationship- that this step in their relationship makes them appear a lot more serious to the higher-ups, which should make everything else a little easier by default.

 

However, Jake had meant that she’d had to combine these two aspects of her life; emails to HR, submitting various forms, working double time if she felt like Holt, if she felt like anyone, was wary of their relationship- anything and everything to make sure she and Jake were secure in their occupations. It is a tightly woven, well-oiled machine, and everything is working perfectly.

 

Everything was working perfectly, until now. 

 

Until this. 

 

In one hand, a small bundle of fabric, the corner of her throw, being clutched so hard it’s honestly surprising it’s not become a small, clammy pile of loose thread.

 

In the other, two pregnancy tests.

 

One positive.

 

One negative.

 

Head throbbing, stomach twisting, hands clammy, Amy is thankful that Jake won’t be home for another couple of hours.

 

She’s only three days late. Although her period has never been late once, not since its friendly arrival when she was thirteen, being late could always be an option. At least, that’s what she’s been telling herself, over, and over, and over again.

 

Her main issue here is trying to figure out how someone as rigorously careful as her could have ended up in this situation; she’s been on the pill since she was sixteen, even though she didn’t have sex until she was twenty, an awkward encounter in her second year of college- sue her, she wanted to prepare- and even in their clumsiest moments she and Jake had made sure they’d been safe. Of course, there’d been the occasional slip-up, but even then she’d been on the pill and tried to get a morning-after if she could.

 

What panics her is that, whether she likes it or not, this adds up. She can picture it now: a Sunday morning, a few weeks back, him pulling her back into bed when she’d tried to get up, his warm body luring her to him as he’d dotted kisses along her hairline and teasingly murmured honeyed words into her ear. The sex was slow, gentle, and heated. It was unbelievably romantic. And now it’s the centre of every gut-wrenching anxious thought spurring in her head right now.

 

A baby. A little person. Half-Jake, half-Amy. 

 

That’s what could be inside her right now.

 

She looks down at her lower belly, the normal pouch of pudge created by sitting down visible through a little lump in her sweats. It seems almost impossible to imagine looking down and, instead, seeing a big, round bump. Maybe even feeling something inside, kicking around. 

 

For a brief moment she wants to touch her belly, as though it’ll make any more sense through this, but she holds back, feeling a lump rise up in her throat, that horrible, sore lump that only rears its ugly bead when you’ve been holding off crying for a good twenty minutes.

 

I’m not going to cry.

 

I’m not going to cry.

 

I’m _not_ going to cry.

 

It’s okay. It’ll be okay. It could go either way, a false positive or a false negative, more likely the former. Nevertheless, a tear spills onto her cheek. She rolls her eyes at herself as she pulls the throw closer to herself, and leans back into the couch cushions, comforted by their warmth.

 

It’s not that she doesn’t want this. She does, honestly, and if anyone’s going to father her children, Jake makes a pretty decent pick. He’s kind, and funny, and a hard worker, and has the exact amount of childishness that she imagines would make parenthood that much more exciting for him. Plus, there’s his experience with his own father; she knows exactly how that shaped him as he was growing up and doesn’t doubt for a second that he’d never let any child, especially his own, go through the same thing.

 

As cliché as it sounds, Amy knows, undoubtedly, that he’d be the father he never had.

 

Which is why she feels the tiniest bit guilty for how scared she is. It’s so, so soon. Or perhaps it only feels that way because they’ve both been so cautious about letting their relationship grow; sure, they’ve integrated their lives together well, told each other they love each other, moved in together- but she’s very aware that they’ve done all of this with a certain nervousness, an eagerness that only comes from knowing what it’s like to wait for someone you really want. Something they’ve both had to do. And she can’t mess all of that up by freaking out.

 

The sound of a key in the door makes her jump, and realising that he’s here, her head starts whirring again. She shoves both her hands under the throw, concealing the tests.

“Hey,” Jake says when he sees her, pushing the door open with his foot, his work bag on one arm and a bag from the bodega in the other. “Prepare to drink to your incredible boyfriend, who finally closed the Faber murders,” he announces, “that’s right, y’all, we’re gettin’ crunk on a Thursday.” His toothy grin radiates his good mood as he moves into the kitchen behind her and starts to take out the food he’s bought. “Y’okay?” He says gently, noticing how quiet she is. 

 

She turns round, arms folded on the back of the sofa, forcing a smile.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

 

“Prosecco?” He waves a bottle around gleefully, practically singing the word as he says it.

 

“You bought prosecco?”

 

“Just so I could do the popping thing with the cork to celebrate. Bubbles make m’tum-tum funky,” he says, patting his stomach. “Y’want some?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, but immediately scolds herself, her tummy stirring with nerves again. 

 

“Just the teeniest bit, though, I’ve got a headache. Not to undercut closing the Faber case, obviously.”

 

“Aw. D’you want an aspirin or something? In fact, it’s probably better if you have it with your food, right?”

 

“Yes please. Speaking of, what’s for dinner?”

 

He only smiles in response to this. “What?” She asks.

 

“Oh, it’s nothing, only that you’re going to find me _very_ hard to resist when I tell you what it is we shall be eating this evening.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“I mean, I know you struggle not to just jump my bones whenever you see me anyway,” he continues, ignoring her rolling her eyes, “but after this week, I figured we could go for some fine dining-”

 

“I swear to God, if you pull out a can of whipped cream, or something,” she starts, but stops when she sees a familiar label on the Styrofoam box he pulls out of the bottom of the bag.

 

_Cracovia Polish Deli – Thanks For Your Purchase ! : )_

 

He hands the box to her, still grinning, and perhaps it’s because of the stress of this evening, or maybe it’s just how much she loves him, or, maybe, she’s just emotionally triggered by perogies and potato pancakes nowadays, but her heart is set to burst, and before she knows it, she’s crying. Ugly crying. It’s as though she folds, crumpling as she starts to cry, her back shaking oddly from her sobs.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jake’s murmuring, as he jumps over the sofa so he’s sat next to her, cradling her and rubbing her back. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I- just-“ she chokes, “I love you. Thank you.” She slips her arms over him and pulls him close to her, thankful for his familiar scent, his familiar warmth.

 

“I love you too,” he says, rubbing her back, but the concern in his voice makes it sound like a question.

 

They sit like this for a second as her breath slows.

 

“God, what _is_ that?” Jake murmurs, chuckling slightly, and when she realises she’s still holding the pregnancy tests, Amy’s heart drops so quickly it might as well shoot right out of her ass.

 

“Oh, nothing, it’s, y’know,” she stutters, but her eyes are wide and she’s refusing to pull away from him and immediately he knows, she can tell, that something’s up. It’s his look of concerned confusion that evokes her sharp pang of guilt- clearly, she’s hiding something, and he’s not even mad about it.

 

“Ames.”

 

She sighs, and pulls her arms away, and puts her arms back in her lap.

 

“It’s not for certain, and we don’t have to freak out yet-”

 

“What, a thermometer? Oh.” His eyes widen as he realises.

 

“One’s negative, but the other one, well,” she holds it up, the offending test, glaring at them with its little pink plus.

 

Jake is dumbstruck, staring at the positive test, utterly frozen. It’s rare that Amy can’t read him- this is a whole other type of weird for her. His eyes are soft, unencumbered, and she swears she can see each emotion flit over them, a few every second; fear, and amazement, and love, and anxiety, and a bit more fear on top.

 

“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning, straight away, to get it properly checked, because obviously I can’t trust these dumb little tests anymore, so I’ll go, and we’ll know for sure, and then we can figure it out. Not that I haven’t already planned a little for either outcome, y’know, I just think… I don’t know…” She restrains herself from babbling any further. “Please say something.” This escapes in a whisper, barely audible.

 

“I don’t… I’m not…” he manages.

 

“Jake, if you don’t want this, then that’s okay.”

 

“No, no, I do, I just,” he says, and part of her finally relaxes, “it’s just a little unplanned.”

 

“I know.” She leans against him. “I just don’t know what to think.”

 

A silence settles between them, for a moment, both looking quietly at the tests in her hands. It’s a different kind of quiet, now, two people mentally processing the way their future is going to change, completely accepting of the fact that it’s possible.

 

“I think,” he says, not looking away from the test, “that we’re going to be okay.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, an accepting calm settling over his face.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding a little, as if he’s telling this to himself too. “Either way,” he says, looking at her, rubbing his thumb over her nervous hands, “I think we’re going to be okay.”

 

“Really?” It’s a small response, but her throat feels like it’s going to close up, and it’s all she can manage.

 

“Yes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s, like,” he makes a childlike explosion sound, gesticulating a bomb going off with his hands, and she can’t help but giggle, at his ability to create humour even in a moment like this. “But, y’know, we’ve got good jobs, and not enough money, but definitely some, and you’re the most organised woman on earth, and, y’know, I mean…” he looks down at the tests, just for a moment, but she sees it- “I know that even if it scares the hell out of me I’d love our kid as much as I love you.”

 

She smiles, trying to ignore the fact that she’s welling up again, and slips her arms around his waist and over his shoulder blades, taking a deep breath as she relaxes against his chest.

 

“Good answer, Peralta.”

 

***

“Could this guy take any longer?”

 

Amy shuffles awkwardly in her seat, adjusting her posture repeatedly, moving around awkwardly, desperate for that stupidly unproductive doctor to come back.

 

“Suggestion- if we’re having a child, can we name it Hurricane? Works for a boy or a girl. Wait! No! Crash.”

 

“I can promise you that if you’ve knocked me up, or if you ever knock me up, I will not be letting you call our child Crash.”

 

“You didn’t say no to Hurricane.”

 

“Only because I feel so nervous I could be sick, and I know you won’t shut up if I tell you no.”

 

“Fair. Ames?”

 

“What?!” She snaps. He’s smiling softly at her, and it makes her feel a little bad. “I’m sorry, I’m a little jumpy.”

 

He takes her hand, squeezing it gently, letting her know it’s okay.

 

“For the record, though, you’re right, and this doctor is taking so long I’m actually considering arresting him.”

 

“Thank you,” she slumps in her chair, sighing.

 

A couple of minutes pass before the doctor comes back, a middle-aged, greying man, coming into the room with a clinical friendly smile and a couple of sheets of paper, which he slots onto his desk as he sits down.

 

“First thing’s first,” he says, and Jake almost winces at how quickly Amy’s hand grips his. “Ms Santiago, you’re not pregnant.”

 

She sighs in relief, sitting back in her chair, trying to ignore the slight emptiness gnawing in her stomach. The build up- and drop- of the adrenaline has her shaken. Jake’s displaying a similar expression, but he shoots her a smile anyway.

 

“Of course, thought it is rare, this can happen for a variety of reasons, perhaps a slight hormone imbalance at the time of testing, or most likely a defective test. It’s nothing to worry about, although should you test falsely positive again I would advise returning so we can test your blood again. For now, though, it all looks nice and healthy.”

 

“I see, thank you.” She murmurs in response.

 

“I do want to urge you not to lose hope, however- may I ask, if it’s alright, how long you two have been trying?”

 

“Oh, no, we, well...” Amy stutters, her cheeks reddening. "It's not really like that."

 

“It’s always a shame, persistently trying and to no avail,” he says, ignoring her,  “I did wonder when I saw the two of you waiting outside. I have some pamphlets for some of our nearby fertility clinics here,” he says, sliding it over the desk, “it can never hurt to get a little help when it comes to these things.”

 

“Thank you,” Amy responds, her voice small.

 

Both of them are frozen, locked in their seats, wordless. Nausea frustratedly pulsates in Amy's head. 

 

At least it's not morning sickness, she thinks, allowing a sadness to creep up on her.

 

***

 

"Kind of dodged a bullet, there, huh."

 

It's the first thing either of them have said since they left the doctor's office, and as Jake says it, Amy can't help but do a double take, looking across at him from the driver's seat of her car. 

 

"What do you mean?!" She asks, trying not to do so incredulously, but unable to hide the anxiety in her tone. "What about last night-"

 

"No, no, I meant all of that," he says earnestly, "it's just..."

 

"What is it?" Amy says quietly. 

 

Jake sighs, looking around uncomfortably in a way that suggests he'd rather do anything _except_ answer that question. "Jake," she says softly, trying to reassure him. 

 

He's looking at his feet, conflicted, his eyes shifting around uneasily as he thinks of how to word what he needs to say.

 

"It's just..." he tries, but shakes his head a little, leaning back into his seat and running a hand through his hair. She leans over and squeezes his hand gently. "It's like... I know I'd absolutely love my kid. Head over heels. Y'know?"

 

Amy nods, watching him carefully. 

 

"But, I mean...  _obviously_  I couldn't do it," he says, partially as if it's a confession and partially as if it's what they've both been thinking this whole time. 

 

"What?" Amy manages, quietly, secretly a little frightened by this. She doubts he'd ever do anything other than support her, or take care of her, but she can't make him have children with her if he doesn't want to. She'd never forgive herself. 

 

"I'd love to have children, Amy, but I'm just not... right for it. If I'm anything like my dad-"

 

"You are  _nothing_  like your dad," Amy interjects under her breath,

 

"- I'm just worried I can't trust myself, Ames. What if I'm like him?" He says earnestly, finally looking at her, her heart sinking at the genuine, rare insecurity and pain in his eyes. "I barely know how to be an adult, let alone teach a kid, my kid, how to be one." 

 

Wordless, she watches him, as he sits back again, looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing tensely. His dark eyes are glazed over, far away, and denoting a tragic combination of childlike worry and aged, experienced concern. 

 

"I have nothing to... uh," his voice cracks a little and he firmly clears his throat. "I have nothing to offer. I can't show my kid how to... I don't know. Use a toolkit. My dad never showed me how. I figured so much out by myself, I don't do anything properly, I-"

 

"Jake." Amy says resolutely, in a low voice, catching his attention.

 

Exposed. Caught out. That's all that comes to her mind when he looks back up at her. Jake is easily one of the most courageous people she knows, perhaps even a little reckless- but his father and the way he's affected his whole life has the power to leave him fearful even now, and it breaks her heart.

 

"It's kind of soul-destroying, seeing the man I love like this, mostly because you are generous, and kind, and intelligent, and funny, and so stupidly brilliant, and I don't understand how you don’t know it sometimes.”

 

"Is this not a One Direction song?" He mutters, but hushes when Amy gives him a look. 

 

"You will be- whenever it happens- an amazing dad, Jake."

 

His frustrated gaze softens a little, but the worry doesn't leave his face for a second. 

 

"I know that what he did to you and your mom was hard, and I can't imagine how it's shaped your confidence and what it means to you to have a child. But," she holds her hand up to stop him from interjecting, "you're so concerned about being like him that I know you'll be one of the most considerate and committed dads there are. Even if you do buy them way too much candy and tell them they can have a pet snake."

 

He nods once, slowly, and takes her hand, squeezing it gently in appreciation.

 

"I think... I kind of got all prepared in my head for it, y'know? After you showed me the test last night, I mean."

 

"You think _you_ were ready for it?!" She chuckles, a little out of relief, "I'd already planned the subsections of my pregnancy binder." 

 

A small laugh escapes him in response, calming Amy a little. A brief quiet falls between them for a moment. 

 

"Then it didn't happen and it was like a sign telling me no."

 

"It wasn’t a sign, doofus. I just got lucky after a morning of unprotected sex.”

 

“You got lucky… after you got lucky.”

 

"I love you. So much." She says, and smiles when he leans over and presses a kiss against her temple, drawing her into a hug. 

 

"I love you too." His voice is low, but warm, rumbling from his chest comfortingly against her. 

 

"You're gonna be such a good dad," she says into his neck, muffled by his jacket. "Even if you do... y'know, conceive your child accidentally."

 

He smiles at this, looking down for a moment.

 

"Oh, all the best kids are accidents."

 

"Really?"

 

"Oh yeah. Including yours truly."

 

"No way."

 

"Uh-huh!" 

 

Their conversation dissolves into anecdotes and laughter, that pleasant buzz from a shared moment driving them along. Eventually Amy starts the car and begins the drive to the precinct, idly chatting about a B&E from last week. She knows there’s a lot unsaid. Over the last twelve hours they’ve discussed unchartered parts of their relationship, parts of their future, like it’s casual, and she knows they’ll have to breach it again properly at some point. They’ll have to breach his dad and Jake’s capacity as a dad again.

 

But, she thinks, as she glances over at him, smiling, musing, even _joking_ about the events of the last half a day, maybe, if he believes a word she says, it might be okay- it might be so okay that they have their own family, their own home, their own, much longer story.

 

She has a feeling, just a little one, that it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heellooooo lovely people
> 
> I struggled with this one. There, I said it. I decided that if I was going to write this moment for Jake and Amy I was going to be super careful, not only because I want to do them justice but because I think it's important that their reactions to something like this are vaguely realistic. 
> 
> Either way, this is the way it turned out. I wrote the majority of this on my phone, as I've been away for a little while without my laptop, so I apologize in advance for anything that looks odd because it was written in iPhone notes.


	7. "There's really no one else's opinion who I care about more than hers."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some late-night advice via text courtesy of ur faves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! it's been a while, huh
> 
> I've been so so so busy and have barely found the time to get any writing in sideways but this managed to escape me somehow so here it is- a very short & simple chunk of writing I've wanted to do since I started this lil series
> 
> lots of love & enjoy

 

 

 

 

 

A slightly jarring clatter comes from the corner of Jake’s apartment as he carelessly tosses his keys across the room and pushes his front door shut. Groaning through a mouth full of pizza, he rolls his eyes, drops his work bag at the door, and sinks to his knees to sweep his hand under the bed where they’ve fled, before his fingers finally clasp around their familiar cold metal and he’s able to retrieve them. Standing up, he tosses them onto his bed, before throwing himself onto it in a similar fashion, releasing a deep sigh as he relaxes into his comforter. The only light he left on in his apartment this morning, the lights on his wall above his bed, cast a dim gleam over his body.

To say the least, it’s been a long day.

That morning, he’d been late to court. His own stupid fault, really- as was pointed out to him by a disgruntled Rosa- given that he’d slept in, after his alarm didn’t go off on his phone. Because he’d not put it on charge before he’d gone to bed. Classic.

That afternoon, his collar, a guy he’d been chasing for months, had received a stupidly small sentence for attempted murder. It had left him reeling; the hours he’d put into getting this guy put away for good, endless nights in the precinct and working late, and the dirty, knowing grin of this guy when he took him in for questioning- and for a five-year sentence. It was just a little deflating, if nothing else. He can get over pretty much any dumb thing that happens at work- but unfairness is something that never has and never will sit right with him.

On his way home he’d stopped to get pizza. Two slices. The slice he’d eaten on his way back, and the slice in his mouth right now, almost gone as he swallows what’s left of it, propping himself up against the wall behind his bed and reaching for the remote. With a click, he turns on the television.

Propped up against his favourite, most squishy pillow, he should be at least a little relieved that the day is over, finishing off some of his favourite food and finally kicking back. But a headache kicking at the inside of his temples suggests the contrary. The fact is, he can’t handle feeling as though he’s let something especially bad happen. Especially with this guy… quiet, smug, almost _proud_ of what he’d done. He’d made Jake’s skin crawl. He wasn’t going to forgive himself easily for this one.

It’s one thing for someone to get a shorter sentence. It’s another to be coming out of prison when the victim, a young woman, will be starting her life, maybe coming out of college, alone, and feeling more unsafe than ever. Jake knows how overwhelmed he felt starting at the Academy, living in New York, alone, aged 22. At least he was a dude, learning self-defence, without anyone who wanted to hurt him. Except, potentially, the bartender who’d served him his first whisky, which he’d spat all over the counter. A little second-hand embarrassment for his 23-year old self makes his cheeks flush.

Minutes tick by as he tries to occupy himself. He’s stupidly exhausted, to the point where the floor feels a little like jelly, but his head is numb with anxiety. He’s not _thinking_ , just feeling, and trying to push it aside so he can sleep. He checks his phone. 11:43pm. He’d been home an hour and done virtually nothing, pacing around his bed and fidgeting, digging at the skin around the nails on his thumbs. Lifting his left hand to his face, he notices he’s actually drawn a little bit of blood, which he carefully sucks at, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth jarring him a little.

He needs to get this off his chest, or he won’t sleep.

Pulling out his phone again, he scrolls through his text message conversations, as though the screen will present to him the ideal contact. _Here ya go, Jake!_ His phone would say, to which he’d be all like, _thanks, dude_.

Jake rubs his eyes. He’s officially so tired he’s envisioning actual verbal communication with an iPhone 5. He looks back at the list of messages.

 **Charles** … **Rosa** … **Terry** … **Mom** …

His eyes stop when he sees **Amy** , nestled neatly in the middle of his recent messages. Something in his core makes him pause entirely, even halting his breath for a second as he fixates on the slightly faded preview of the last message in their conversation- a simple ‘For realz’ he’d sent her only the other day. In an instant, he’s forgotten to what exactly this was in response, but he’s not fussed, because he’s almost entirely sure he’d like to talk to her right now. She’d probably be awake right now- she’d been working late the last couple of nights, and he knew she’d stayed late at the precinct tonight.

Inadvertently, he pictures her, at her desk, her hair swept to the side – having fallen out of its bun, as it does when she’s working for more than 14 hours – as she pours over witness statements, photographs, records, her dark eyes intent and slightly red from drowsiness. Snapping out of it, he realises that this is the first time the whole day he hasn’t had his mind on the court case. And although a guilty niggling in his stomach seems to tell him off for doing anything other than worrying about it, he follows his head and his heart and opens his conversation with Amy.

The dull ache in his forehead eases off, just the tiniest bit, at the thought of speaking to her about it.

**Hey, u still at the PRECINCT**

Jake tuts to himself, deleting the entirely capitalised ‘PRECINCT’, a word his phone had decided to capitalise all the time after he’d texted Gina the other week excitedly telling her to get to work because there was a spot-on Rihanna doppelganger in the holding cell.

**Hey, u still at the precinct?**

He sends the message, and waits. But it’s only seconds before those little dots appear in the corner, and then:

_Hi. Yes. Why? Do you need something?_

**Kinda offended that u** **’d assume I was texting u just to ask u for a favor :-/ u never kno this could have been a sweet booty text or a desperate cry for help**

_… IS this a booty text?_

**Ew no**

_Thank God._

**Rude**

_Jake._

_I_ _’m working._

_What_ _’s up?_

**Hm. Promise you won** **’t tease me**

_What? Did you get locked out or something?_

**no I** **’m just like.. bummed. Was hopin for some motivation, Santiago-style**

_Oh._

 

He looks at this response for a moment, wondering for a moment if he’s made a mistake, texting her late at night asking for advice. Anxiously, he watches the little floating ellipses bob up and down cruelly under her last message.

_Is this to do with court today?_

 

He breathes a sigh of relief. Then, another text-

 

_Rosa told me._

A pause. Those little ellipses pop up and down several times, as though she’s repeatedly retyping her next message.  


_I_ _’m sorry._

**It** **’s ok.**

He looks at this message, and immediately sends another.

**well, it** **’s not, but it could be worse**

_If it_ _’s keeping you up, it_ _’s not okay._

**I just wish I could do something ? I feel totally useless**

As soon as he’s sent it, he regrets it. Any text sent past midnight with the phrase “I feel” in it should probably be properly evaluated before it’s sent off, he thinks. But, in mere seconds, a brief buzz of his phone signifies a response.  


_You did everything you could. And more. I saw how hard you worked on that case._

**but he STILL got the shortest sentence he could get. that dude was AWFUL, amy. He** **’s barely gonna kno jail before he** **’s back out there**  
  
He stares at his phone, feeling his throat swell a little, then starts another message.

**And it** **’s literally just. Killing me. That it** **’s my fault**

He drops his phone at his side and leans back, taking a deep breath as he rubs his hands over his face. A few minutes pass as he lies like this.

A slight feeling of guilt creeps up on him for texting Amy so late at night. It’s not like they haven’t offloaded day-to-day stresses onto each other, but this feels a little more… heavy. A buzz catches his attention again.

_Jake, do you promise that you_ _’ll listen to what I_ _’m about to say?_

**sure?**

_You_ _’re the reason that scumbag is being put away at all. Without you he might have gone unnoticed, or even killed her._

He starts to type back an objection, deletes it, retypes it, then stops, putting his phone on his lap. It’s not like she’s wrong, it’s just that he can’t help but feel like it’s still not _enough_.

Jake doesn’t like being the hero. He doesn’t like- scratch that, can’t _stand_ \- unfairness. And he knows he lets it get the better of him. In 2007, aged 26, he’d been assigned to a redball with a 7 year-old victim. He hadn’t slept for weeks, and the whole thing had driven him crazy. It’s one thing dealing with criminals day to day, and it’s another when they really mess with your head.

 His phone vibrates against his leg.

_You_ _’re a good man, and New York is lucky for it._

_Sleep it off. If nothing else so I can get back to work and get back to my apartment before two in the morning._

_Everything feels worse late at night._

A smile creeps onto his face and his stomach warms, partially at the thought of her irritatedly trying to get back to work- even though he really knows she’s handling it all perfectly- and partially at her calling him a good man.

So, of course, he replies appropriately.

**Thank u ames**

**Ykno it** **’s just so useful to speak to sum1 who realises how completely perfect and fantastic I am when im in moments of need xxx**

_Someone_ _’s awfully self-congratulatory given that he types like a thirteen-year-old._

**In all honesty it worries me that ur familiar with how 13 year olds type**

_Shut up._

**Oh & ames? **

_…Yes?_

**Thank u. for realz**

_It_ _’s okay, Jake._

**I should ask for advice more often this was fun**

_Sure._

**green sweats or plaid?**

_Go to bed._

**can** **’t go to bed until you** **’ve told me what sweats to wear**

**alternative: I wear nothing at all**

**try not to get too riled up picturing it**

_Goodnight, Jake._

 

To his surprise, he senses the silence around him, his head’s ringing finally stopping, and a yawn escapes him as he allows himself for the first time that evening to feel the warmth of his bedsheets around him. He turns off the lights behind his bed, letting the dim, warm flicker of the television become the only light in the room.

He lies there, turning her words over and over in his head, not criticising, not rethinking- just drowsily allowing them to ruminate, knowing that something she said must have been right if ten minutes ago he couldn’t imagine sleeping in ten years and now he’s actually kind of forgiven himself and he’s beginning to feel his exhaustion take hold of him.

Lazily, he picks up his phone, trying to ignore how natural it feels saying exchanging goodnights with her and the warmth that stirs within him at her last text. With a sigh, he sends one last text, rolls over, and within minutes, he’s out cold, breathing heavily as he finally lets himself rest. Sleep hits him, hard, like he’s finally come home after a long trip, the last thoughts humming and swirling around in his head recalling safety, and Amy, and rest, and one last, grateful little thought: _I_ _’ll make it up to her_.

On the bedside table, his phone, still unlocked, is still showing their conversation, as though telling it to the night.

 

**night, ames**


	8. "Are you aroused because of what a bad boy I am?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amy santiago, fresh addition to the 99, has a sex dream about her new colleague, and it- amusingly- ruins her day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi
> 
> I don't even... I don't know where this came from. I'm sorry. I just got obsessed with the idea of newly employed detective Santiago freaking the fuck out because she had a super hot dream about you-know-who. Writing with a slightly different dynamic- that is, the two of them being less familiar with eachother as people and barely being friends, let alone romantic interests, was also really fun; I loved the idea of Amy thinking about sleeping with him and her immediate response essentially just being 'nooooooooooooooooo'
> 
> anyway hope u enjoy a dash of smut and a sprinkle of Santiago madness

_***_

_The precinct is dim, yet somehow warmly lit, the shapes of the bullpen vague and dark. That is, except for the desk that Amy is sat at and the one in front of her, where **he** sits. These parts are clearly visible- each pen, each letter on her keyboard, each silly little toy on his desk, not just clear to her eye, but by some means vibrant, exciting, as though they’re the pulse of this room._

_Amy’s hands move swiftly, with conviction, over the keyboard in front of her, as she searches for data she can reference in the report neatly open on the desk in front of her. She’s in her element and she knows it, signing off each page when she’s filled it out to perfection in beautifully smooth ink with her new fountain pen and a small feeling of pride growing as she completes them, sitting tall as she puts each page aside. Eventually she falls into a seamless rhythm, barely even controlling herself, her focus controlling her completely._

_It is in moments like these that she feels truly beautiful._

_Perhaps it sounds silly, but the satisfaction of fulfilling that determination that drives her, taking control of the things she cares about, efficiently and professionally doing what she’s most passionate about- that’s what fills her with the most confidence._

_She’s not even sure she knows why she’s here so late, with barely any noise or light coming from the street outside. She doesn’t even know what she’s writing any more. The pages simply keep coming, never-ending- but that doesn’t hinder her. Her hand flies over each page, the ink applies perfectly, and she completes it flawlessly, still moving to her own rhythm._

_Right up until she stops. Abruptly, and absolutely._

_There are eyes on her, she can feel it, burning into her skin and making her blush, her cheeks and her chest warming. The dark, berry-coloured blouse she appears to be wearing is suddenly stifling._

_Looking up, she realises quickly that it’s him who’s looking at her._

_She stands up, clearing her throat, moving away from his desk. The shapes of the precinct that were once indistinguishable now form themselves as she walks towards the evidence locker, where she now finds herself all too quickly, standing in front of a tall stack of shelves, eyeing the boxes carefully as she searches for the one she needs._

_“Hey,” his voice comes from behind her, and inadvertently she calms down, melts, unafraid to let her body move with the deepening of her breath in the- somewhat uncharacteristically dark- corner of the evidence locker in which she stands. “Are you looking for this?”_

_She turns around, to see Jake gesturing to a box in a small nook behind him._

_“Yes, I think so,” her voice comes, low, polite, and she walks towards him carefully. It’s as if she’s intoxicated, hazy and uncalculated, and has to watch herself in case she makes the wrong move._

_In case she goes too far._

_He’s smiling, busying himself with the file he’s holding, fiddling with the box he has open next to it._

_“What is it?” She asks._

_“It’s just… you get this look on your face, when you’re concentrating.” He’s still smiling to himself, looking down at the box, his thick eyelashes discernible from where she’s standing. “It’s really adorable.” He says quietly._

_She could swear her heart stops._

_He turns a little so he’s fully facing her, and, as if to remind her it’s still there, her heart starts to race. Their few inches of height imbalance are accentuated as they seems to gravitate towards each other, somehow coming closer without moving._

_“You’re… really adorable.” He murmurs, his voice so close she has to stop herself from shuddering. She can feel his breath, grazing a sensitive spot along her jaw, a faint, sweet scent of gummy bears on his mouth. The heat pooling in her stomach is begging her to taste it._

_Before she can completely register it, the tips of his fingers are tracing her jaw, his thumb skirting the edge of her lower lip. She doesn’t dare look at him, for fear of how little restraint she’ll have._

_She does it anyway, obviously._

_His eyes are dark, determined, but amazed, taking her in as his fingers glide into her hair and his other hand slides up her back. For a second, he freezes, looking at her inquisitively, a quick are-you-sure?_

_Of course I’m sure._

_She eases into his touch, rocking onto the balls of her feet to bring herself up to him, feeling his hands slide up her back hungrily as she lets her lips touch his, finally, finally, fucking finally. He responds quickly, tilting his head to allow her to move as close to him as physically possible while deepening the kiss. It stays like this for a while, slow, calculated, hot._

_In a whir of dark shapes and heat, they’re all over each other, frenzied, fervent, and she finds herself pushed up against the shelves, the discomfort of the metal against her back compensated for by the gentle, but purposeful way in which Jake sweeps his tongue across her lip before he tastes her tongue. Her hands tug at his shirt and slip into his hair. A groan escapes his mouth, a noise she’s never heard him make, coming from the very back of his throat, and she can’t help but smile against his kiss. He smiles, too, letting out a low chuckle, before he bends down and scoops her up by her legs, fingers teasing the underside of her thighs._

_“Jake,” his name escapes her as he props her up against the shelves, splaying one hand over the small of her back and allowing the other to roam over her leg, gently skimming the side of her upper thigh. They break their kiss for a moment, and he looks straight at her, and she can only manage the one word aching to be said. “Please.”_

_They move rhythmically, perfectly, teasing each other in turn as they take turns undressing each other, giggling, gasping, and inviting each other to more. Time seems to escape them, as though she’s zooming in and out of this moment, and it feels like mere seconds before she has him in her hand, and he’s groaning against her cheek, a vulnerability and longing in his eyes, and then he’s kissing along the inside of her thighs, pulling at her underwear with her fingers before he finally takes her with his mouth, carving patterns into her with his tongue that have her whole body twisting and tensing under the dim light._

_Her breath hitches sharply when, eventually, she feels him move inside her, cradling his head in her hands as he holds her in his arms, leading himself into her carefully. Hot breath mingles between them as their bodies struggle against each other, eliciting more noise from each other as they get faster. Before she knows it she’s clinging onto him desperately, practically losing her mind as he kisses up her throat, her fingers clutching onto his firm shoulders, enjoying the heat of his skin underneath her fingertips- and she’d rather have anything in the world than have this stop, because she didn’t even know she needed this, but he’s here, and she’s so close, and she’s never felt more incredible, and-_

_***_

With a sharp inhale, Amy Santiago wakes up, bolt upright, flushed, a little out of breath, starkly aware of an almost painful tension in her lower stomach.

A little dazed, she checks the time on her phone, which is placed neatly in front of three battery-powered alarm clocks, impossible to read in the darkness. 5:54am. That’s fine- she’d be getting up in just under an hour anyway.

She pulls the blankets that seem to stifle her body off herself, relaxing a little at the cool air on her skin. Her mind still isn’t switched on, desperately trying to place the dream she’s had and stifle the heat that seems to have overtaken her body.

All at once, she remembers.

“Oh… my god,” she murmurs to herself, embarrassment overtaking whatever was left in her that was even vaguely turned on. “Oh my god.”

She stands up, pulling her phone from its charger, and walks quickly out of her room to her kitchen. It’s a cool April morning, the only light in her apartment a cool blue barely casting itself across the furniture in her living room. Every movement feels like fire against her body; the long shirt she’s wearing grazes against her bare leg and she almost jumps out of her skin, she bumps against the kitchen counter and it hurts like she’s been punched, she reaches out for the coffee machine and electricity seems to jump onto her fingers.

Come to think of it, this machine is pretty old- there’s a strong chance it’s actual electricity.

A sex dream. She’d had a _sex dream_. About her partner.

“Oh my goooooood,” she groans once again, internally scolding herself when she picks up on how closely her first few sentences of today resemble the last few sentences of her dream.

She’s only been at the nine-nine for a few months, and she’s come so far since she took up a position as a detective; she’s made at least 20 major arrests, closed plenty of cases, and, despite the slightly… oaf-like captain their precinct has been assigned, she’s getting on well enough with everyone. They’ve even had her out at their favourite bar, Shaw’s, a few times.

And now her stupid brain has to come along and ruin it by imagining having sex with her partner. Her partner, who, for the record, is one of the most childish and unprofessional people she’s ever met. He’s funny enough, sure, boyishly charming, and definitely good at his job- but it’s as if he’s allergic to doing anything properly. Just last week they’d worked a B&E and he’d not even briefed their CO before they’d left. Later he’d botched the paperwork, and left it for her to clean up. He’s a mess. Just the other day she’d even seen him flirting with a beat cop on her way into work. Rumour has it he’s even brought a date into the precinct after hours before. Which, she realises, is probably where that dream came from.

It’s not like she hasn’t had a sex dream before, or that she’s never been even slightly sexually attracted to someone with whom she’s worked. She’s only human. It’s just that she can’t help but want to scold herself for it being _him_. It’s perhaps the most unlikely attraction her brain could come up with. He literally cannot do _one_ thing by the book. It’s not that he’s a bad person, as far as she can tell, just that he lacks any capacity to do things like someone who cares about their job. Plus, there’s the obvious issue that she doesn’t _actually_ want to sleep with him, nor will she probably ever want to sleep with him- but the images were so strong in her head that now she’s been scarred by them and will probably have to spend days, weeks, trying to rinse them out.

She downs two and a half cups of coffee before she can even think about getting on with work, then hastily gets her things together and decides if she wants to work properly today she’ll have to start early, grabbing her keys and heading for the precinct before it’s even gone 7:45am.

 

***

 

Sitting down to pee, Amy rests her head on the cold side of the cubicle, doing everything in her power to stop herself from hitting her head against it instead.

It’s not even midday and she’s been a mess all morning.

The second he’d walked into the bullpen she’d lost all composure, yelling “There he is! Jakey P!” and immediately regretting it, swallowing thickly and slouching awkwardly against her chair. He’d looked at her slightly oddly, eyes narrowing, asking sarcastically if she’d been sampling the evidence from their latest bust.

Later that morning, he’d come into the break room, where he’d asked her to put his taquitos in the toaster oven for him. She’d not actually done or said anything this time- which, it turns out, was her downfall. He caught on straight away.

“Aren’t you going to try and lecture me on this?” He’d asked, watching her quietly slot his food into the toaster oven before getting back to making her coffee. She’d frozen, looking at him, eyes wide, feeling stupidly caught out. She’d giggled awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears, mumbling some nonsense about there being no point in telling him off. A small smile had tugged at his mouth, confusion still evident in his questioning eyes, his face half-amused and half-bewildered. He’d leant in front of her, muttering something about her “putting it on the wrong setting”, and her heart had started racing the second she caught his scent and his shoulder had brushed against her arm.

She can’t get the images from that stupid dream out of her head.

It’s not even like it’s a romantic feeling that’s being dragged up right now; it’s just the sheer humiliation at the thing’s she’s envisioned him and her doing together- she feels like it’s so blatantly obvious, that someone will somehow realise, or worse, that _he’ll_ realise, and he’d just never stop teasing her about it.

And now, here she is, a new all-time low, sat on the toilet, trying to figure out life. More specifically, trying to figure out, through some kind of mid-pee Freudian psychoanalysis, why her brain is all of a sudden asking her to have sex with her colleague.

Washing her hands, she realises there’s only two ways to properly get this out of her system; she can either force herself out of it, finding something that’ll switch off the attraction, or she can actually have sex with him and fulfil whatever bender her brain seems to be on.

Clearly, it’s not going to be the latter; she can hardly put a pen in the wrong pot at work let alone completely screw up a key work relationship only months into the job. He’s her partner and she’s keen to build a good relationship on trust and teamwork with him, maybe even be his friend. She’d no less deliberately sleep with him than she’d slack off work and spend the day watching TV. These images are just occupying her- she’s horny, not insane.

So her only option is letting it go and trying to switch off the images in her head. She sighs, looking at herself in the grubby mirror, fixing her low bun, before she heads out of the bathroom again.

He’s sat at his desk, talking to a teenage boy in the seat next to it. She recognises him from something to do with a vandalism case he’d been discussing yesterday.

Sliding into her chair, she busies herself with paperwork, struggling not to eardrop.

“Listen, man. Either way, we’ve got you and your friends on camera. I get the whole honour-among-thieves thing but it’s slightly less meaningful when you’ve been tagging curse words and wieners on the back wall of a little old lady’s bodega.”

The kid stays silent, looking off to his side.

“C’mon, man, don’t be that guy. Just make it easier for everyone. Your friends are most likely going to be brought in anyway, since we have them on camera. If you can give me names you’ll probably all end up getting a smaller punishment and we can tie this up quicker.”

Jake looks at him expectantly, but still receives no response. He sighs, leaning back into his chair, at which point he notices Amy glancing over. “Feel free to try with him if you want,” he says, plunging his hand into his desk drawer- which, she discovered the other day, contains a 3kg bag of gummy bears- and shoves some into his mouth.

“I’m not questioning him _for_ you, Peralta. Don’t be so unprofessional.”

“Finally, she makes some kind of comeback.” He says, a tone of irritation lingering in his voice, mixed with a kind of glee, as though he’s finally got a valid opportunity to quip at her. “Have you been recharging all morning or something? Are you plugged into an outlet I don’t know about?” He says mockingly. “Be honest: does it read an NYPD code of conduct document to you while you sleep?” He grins toothily.

She rolls her eyes, trying to squash the residual humiliation at the back of her mind. It’s all she can think about, and she’s already embarrassed herself twice today. She’s banking on a third if she keeps trying to talk to him.

“Be grateful it’s me questioning you right now,” he says to the teenager sat next to him, “if you had her, you’d never get out of here- the second you’d answer she’d correct your grammar and explain in excruciating detail exactly what laws you broke. I’ve seen her do it before.” He says this last part in a hushed voice, before he smiles tartly at her over their desks. It’s taking all she has not to launch her pen at him.

“Jake, not today, I’m not in the mood.” She says quietly. She knows she’ll make an idiot of herself if she even looks at him after the things she’s unconsciously pictured him doing to her. “Just don’t.” She says, lifting up a hand, as he starts to reply.

“Fine,” he says, indignantly, frowning a little. Out of the corner of her eye she can see him looking oddly at her, brows furrowed, as if trying to find some kind of visual evidence as to what’s wrong with her. She stays fixated on her work, desperately avoiding his gaze.

A feeling of uneasiness creeps up on her as she realises they’d agreed- well, she’d convinced _him_ \- to stay behind a couple hours after work to build the groundwork for a murder they’d been assigned only yesterday, meaning she’d have to spend time with him eventually.

She clears her throat and heads for the kitchenette in the corner of the bullpen, where she pulls her travel mug down from the top shelf and pours out a tall glass of water, which she gulps down in just a few seconds, desperately trying to get her head back to normal. Irritation sets in as she realises how silly she must have seemed, dismissing him then walking off. She looks back over at their desks, where he’s resumed his struggle with the boy sat next to him.

Even though she’s only known him a few months, and most of that has demonstrated that he’s anything but mature, he does seem to be a genuinely decent person. She asked him to stop being a child and he did, straight away, even if he was a little annoyed about it. She’s worked with jackasses who she knows would have made everything worse. She watches the matter-of-fact grin he takes as he’s talking to the kid, probably talking about something totally random and trying to annoy him into talking. He’s a decent person, if nothing else.

She feels a little bit of her embarrassment slip away- perhaps it’s because she, for the first time, sees Peralta as someone who respects her, at least a little, rather than someone she should be ashamed of fantasising about, or perhaps just because she feels a little stupid for stammering and stumbling over her words so much today. It shouldn’t affect her like this.

***

“Can you pass me that photo you were showing me earlier?” Jake asks through a mouthful of food, gesturing over to Amy, who’s sat next to him in the break room. Their files are spread out over the large, circular table, so that they can look at it all at once together. “Hey. Yoo-hoo,” he waves a hand in front of her face when she doesn’t reply, trying to get her attention.

“Oh, right,” she mutters, handing it back to him.

“Hey. Amy.” His voice changes, and he puts the photograph down, looking straight at her. She looks up, taken aback- in the few months she’s known him, he hardly ever uses her first name.

“Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?” He pauses. “You don’t, like, _have_ to tell me, I just thought I’d ask. You’ve not been yourself today.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m just…” she starts, muttering stupidly again. Taking a deep breath, she sinks into her seat, running her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry. Just been one of those days. Y’know when something small, something like, really insignificant happens and it bugs you all day?” He nods. “Yeah, just that. I’m sorry for taking it out on you.”

“Hey, don’t worry, we all do it,” he smiles, “Working here sometimes means that we’ll spend so much time together that if we can help each other feel better then it’s definitely worth it. Speaking of which- gummy bear?”

“Thanks. And yeah, sure.”

He offers up an odd, colourful gummy roll- what she thinks might be a fruit roll up filled up with various candies, and picks out a gummy bear from the side. “Is this… uh… your dinner?” She asks, slipping the gummy bear into her mouth.

“Yeah. And my lunch, actually.”

“Breakfast?”

“Didn’t eat any.”

She shudders.

“You’ve eaten nothing but fruity gummies all day?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Your stomach must be a mess.”

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been to the bathroom in like, two days.” He shrugs, stifling a grin, and resumes eating it, taking a big bite out of the side. Amy’s stomach churns.

Despite the nausea that briefly floods over her as she watches him, it’s overtaken by relief; somehow, magically, that comment about his bowel movements- or lack thereof- has totally cured her of any sexual tension.

“Hold on,” he says, leaning in front of her, reaching out for the file she has in front of her.

The beautifully odd mixed scent of candy and cologne hits her, and, just like that, she’s back to square one.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” She mutters, slouching back into her chair, defeated.

“What?”

“Just. Uh.” She stammers. “Back pain. Stupid chairs.”

“Don’t worry, another three months here and you’ll go numb to ‘em like everyone else,” he says, scanning over the file, “I’m convinced that Scully and Hitchcock are only as physically broken as they are because they’re so used to it.”

“Right,” she replies, smiling half-heartedly. She watches him, idly chewing on his food, eyes focused on the paper in front of him. His eyelashes are thick, his hair a little messy, and she can see each muscle in his jaw working. “Ugh,” she exclaims inadvertently, thankful that Jake doesn’t respond this time. She stands up and tucks her chair back under the table.

“Do you know if the prints came back from the lab yet, by the way?”

“Nope, not yet.” She says, occupying herself with a photograph of their suspect, looking over his documents and a copy of a witness statement. She looks up when she feels his eyes on her. “What?”

“Nothing, you just,” he chuckles to himself, “you make this really specific face when you’re concentrating, it’s funny.”

Her stomach drops, and her brain goes into freak-out mode- that’s basically exactly what he’d said in her dream. _Escape_ , she tells herself, _before you say something stupid again_.

“I’ll be right back, I’m going to the evidence locker.” She says hastily.

“Okay. Actually, I might come with you.”

“NO!”

Jake watches her leave the room in silence, totally impressed and totally confused.


	9. "Just... whenever I look at her face, and the attached physique."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake ft Amy's face and the attached physique (duh)

The air in Shaw’s is suffocating. Or so Jake swears. As per usual, the low musical hum of what is probably some indie pop or alt rock mixes pleasantly with the busy chatter and laughter of any bar on a Friday night. To him, it all sounds the same, the sounds of the room interweaving into one long continuous mumble of conversation and guitar, perhaps an occasional giggle or risen inflection in someone’s voice standing out from the rest of the noise.

Sat across from him, Amy is leant forward on her elbows, sipping from her bottle of beer, listening intently to Terry as he tells a story of some high-profile case-gone-by. It’s not like he’d know- over the last five, maybe fifteen, minutes, all he’s been able to look at is her.

In a long-sleeved, dark red dress, her denim jacket folded on her lap, she’s more formally dressed than he’s ever seen her in the year and a half they’ve been working together. Her shoulders and neck are bare, the top of the dress leaving them exposed, and with her hair swept up neatly in a low bun, a whole smooth side of her jaw and neck is visible to him. The dress achingly floats over the rest of her body, not tight, but not too young- it’s perfectly her. As she politely- and hastily- informed everyone earlier in the day, she has a date, one that starts a little later in the evening, so she might as well come along to Shaw’s before she heads out. In the air, the smell of her perfume, from a small and indistinguishable bottle she had held up to her neck only minutes ago, lingers, a masculine, rich, floral smell occasionally catching in his nose. It’s intoxicating.

Aside from anything else, seeing her like this is a little disconcerting. It’s not that he’s never thought she’s attractive, she’s obviously very pretty, but he’s never been caught off guard by it, he thinks, even his own thoughts clumsily stumbling over each other as he swallows thickly. It’s nothing. He’s barely seen her life outside of work, let alone before any kind of romantic situation.

“You okay, Jakey?”

He jumps at the sound of Charles’ voice next to him, eyes wide, briefly catching a few of the others’ attention – Amy, Rosa, and Terry look at him momentarily as he regains spatial awareness.

“Oh, yeah, just daydreaming.” He says dismissively.

Conversation picks up again quickly, everyone still drawn in by Terry’s story. Amy takes a swig of her beer, and, watching her lips against the rim of the bottle, Jake notices that her lipstick is the same crimson as her dress. A part of him is a tad self-congratulatory, as if noticing something new justifies his inability to keep his eyes off her.

Terry finishes off his story, eventually hitting some kind of punchline that evokes a round of laughter and cheers. Jake forces a little giggle, though he’s totally unaware of whatever it is that’s just been said. He shakes himself a little- he needs to lose this distraction.

“Okay, next round’s on me,” he announces warmly, smiling, earning a cheer and a handful of grins from the squad as he slips off his barstool. “Same as before?” He asks, looking round at everyone, before heading over to the bar.

Immediately he feels a little better, the sudden movement and interaction bringing him a little energy. He waits for a few minutes in front of the bar, readjusting his hoodie a few times and desperately trying not to look back at their table for fear he’ll be fixated on Amy again, before he repeats the order to the bartender, handing over his card and praying his account isn’t _too_ overdrawn.

He shakes his head, putting his inability to concentrate on more than one person down to his tiredness from the week’s work, and leans against the bar. It’s not like he’s never looked at another work colleague and found them particularly good-looking or even attractive that day. It’s just that it’s never felt like he’s done something wrong until now. They’re decent friends, he and Amy- or, at least, he’s pretty sure. They’ve never really explicitly crossed the line between colleagues and friends. They share similar senses of humour, and work well together, but they’re not exactly doing favours for each other on the weekend or hanging out all the time. So there’s no reason for him to be getting conflicted with any kind of attraction to her. He just needs a reality check; he can’t be doing, or _thinking,_ anything stupid.

Or _feeling_ , he thinks, before internally shutting himself up. He does _not_ have feelings for Amy.

Behind the bar several employees scurry around, pouring and shaking and darting around each other busily, each wearing the distant, yet focused expression of a staff member desperately trying to keep up with a rush of customers. It’s going to be a while before the drinks come up.

Reluctantly, he looks back over at the table where everyone is sat, still chatting away, finishing the dregs of their drinks. His empty stool means he can see Amy directly, grinning, talking, occasionally checking her watch. He automatically stifles a grin, instead rolling his eyes to himself at her insistency on being exactly on time. He can imagine how desperately she wants to text her date and tell him to hurry the hell up- and exactly how much effort it’s taking her to restrain herself.

She’s waiting for a text to tell her that he’s outside. Her date, that is. She mentioned it earlier- it’s maybe the only part of the group conversation he’s heard all evening. Her eyes flicker down to her phone, which is sat on the table in line with her beer bottle, and Jake is even more drawn towards her when he realises she’s wearing eyeshadow, a dark brown, thinly coating her eyelids. It’s subtle. Nice. Well, more than nice.

 _The kind of thing you wouldn_ _’t notice unless you_ _’d been staring at her for twenty minutes_ , he reminds himself. Uneasiness settles over him.

On the bar in front of him are two of the six drinks he’s waiting for. A sigh escapes him. Being up here is not only not helping take his mind off his partner, but taking forever.

He finishes his previous beer and places the empty bottle on the other side of the drinks he’s just been handed, receiving a nod from a bartender as she places another drink in front of him. He feels a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He jumps out of his skin.

“Hey,” Amy smiles, as if she’s about to laugh at how on-edge he seems to be, “I just realised you were about to attempt to carry six drinks back to our table by yourself, thought I’d come over and help. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Jake responds quickly, clearing his throat, “for, y’know, coming to help.” He looks to her, eyes a little too wide, eyebrows raised- his typical trying-to-seem-casual pose. Amy raises her eyebrows expectantly. “What?” He asks, feeling a little gawkish.

“What _is_ it?” She asks earnestly, her shoulders slumping a little. “Is it the eyeshadow?”

“What?” He manages, unable to stop the confusion from seeping into his voice.

“You’ve been looking at me weirdly all night- don’t deny it,” she says, lifting her palm as he starts to interject, “and now you’re acting weird, and it’s either because I’ve got pen on my chin again and you’re waiting to see if I notice, or, you think I look weird.”

“I don’t think you look weird, Amy.”

“C’mon, I know you’re not the kind of guy who’d look at me like you have been this evening unless there was actually something off- and plus, you know me pretty well, so it wouldn’t exactly be unfounded or dumb.”

“It’s nothing, I’m just tired, and, y’know, not used to seeing you all dressed up.”

She frowns at the insufficient lack of feedback, furrowing her brow.

“You look nice,” he tries to say reassuringly.

Amy makes a face, her brows knitting together for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something joking or silly. Instead, he looks at her in a way he hopes is vaguely sincere, looking straight into her dark eyes and unconsciously stamping down a brief flutter in his chest.

“Okay, sure, whatever you say.” She says, looking back over the bar.

There's a pause, both of them relaxing a little.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it _would_ be hilarious to send you out on a date with pen on your face, but you’ve been pretty meticulous today. Or, anal, as most people call it.” He jibes, relaxing when he sees her roll her eyes in response.

“Meticulous, nice word,” she says, taking two beers in one hand and Rosa’s whisky in the other, and starting back for the table, “did you learn that one just for me?” She grins over her shoulder.

“You wish,” he says, taking the rest of the drinks.

“Yes, Jake,” she starts, slipping into her barstool, “I _dream_ of men who pick up high-school-level vocabulary solely to make fun of me.”

“Har-har,” he mocks, pulling a face back at her. She smiles, shaking her head, and he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Somehow, being reminded of her sarcasm has taken his mind off how good she looks.

 _Looked_ , he corrects himself. _Looked. When you were daydreaming. Before._

Chatter and laughter resumes just as quickly as it died down as it had when Jake and Amy approached the table, Rosa suggesting a game of truth or drink and what was agreeable laughter and paced talking descends into hysterical giggles and hurried confessions.

“Where’s the most inappropriate place you’ve ever had sex?” Rosa asks, grinning, greeted with a wave of groans and laughter. “Boyle?”

Hastily, Charles necks a good half of his mimosa, shrugging.

“Dear God, it’s so bad that you’d actually rather drink?” Jake laughs, and Charles gives him a wink, which only makes him laugh more.

Terry decides to drink rather than answer, uncomfortably shifting around in his barstool. Gina gleefully details the sexy story of an afternoon on a train to Delaware. Rosa admits to getting busy in a hospital, earning a short bout of laughter before she explains she wasn’t actually visiting anyone there.

“Your turn,” Rosa says, looking at Jake.

“I don’t know,” he says, thinking for a second, and then it hits him- “Oh my god. My ex-girlfriend’s parents’ ensuite bathroom.”

“Always classy, Jake,” Amy mutters, rolling her eyes.

“And let me guess, yours is?” He raises his eyebrows at her teasingly. “The wrong side of the bed? A dresser?” He gasps. “Dear _god_ , Amy, did you do it in the kitchen? You are _bad_.”

“Actually, _I_ _’m_ not answering.” She says, smiling slyly and raising her beer, before finishing it off, much to the rest of the group’s amusement, even meriting a quick wolf whistle from Gina.

“Fair play,” he laughs, deliberately ignoring the gnawing feeling signifying just how desperately he actually wants to know.

“Okay, next question,” Gina starts, “biggest turn-on?”

“Okay, I’m out of here, this is getting a little too personal. Plus, it’s like, ten.” Terry smiles, patting Charles’ back and picking up his coat. Everyone says their goodbyes as he heads off, before Gina spins back round to the group again.

“The superior is gone! We can officially get raunchy,” she begins, scrolling furiously through her phone. “Let’s find a juicy question…”

“Oh my god, it’s ten,” Amy murmurs to herself.

Jake looks over at her. She's frowning at her phone.

“Hey,” he says quietly, giving her a gentle kick under the table. She looks up, but her face is distracted. “What’s up?”

“Oh,” she murmurs, “my date cancelled.” She shrugs, indignant, but he can tell she’s a little disappointed, and sympathy stirs in him, his chest aching slightly for her. “Whatever, I’m having more fun here anyway,” she smiles, and in one swift motion, she pulls her dark hair out of its bun, letting it fall all over her bare shoulders. “No need to look fancy.”

In this second, Jake is straight back to square one, his eyes stuck on her shoulders and the way her hair sweeps around her neck as she ruffles it with her fingers. Something inside him, something quiet, new, protective, is whispering. _Who on earth would stand this woman up?_

“He’s an asshole,” he says indignantly, swigging her beer.

“It’s okay, Jake,” she says, even though she’s smiling a little.

“No it’s not. It’s a dick move.”

“So what?”

“So, you’re my friend,” he hears himself say out loud, without meaning to, but knowing it’s true the second it leaves his lips, “and you got ready for a night out, so you should have one.”

“What?” She asks, but, obviously, it’s too late.

“Okay, folks, we officially have Santiago to ourselves!” He proclaims loudly, the group turning to him and Amy in confusion, “and she’s _beautifully_ dressed up, so we are making a night out of this. Gina,” he starts, pointing over at her, “find the most scandalous truth or drink questions on earth.”

“Rosa and I already have a list going,” Gina says, holding up a napkin with several items scrawled on it in biro. Rosa nods once.

“Charles, stop booty-texting that old woman in your building, we’re gettin’ funky and goin’ dancing.”

“She’s fifty-nine, that’s not that old-” Charles starts, but is booed into submission by everyone else.

“And Amy, if you would do me the pleasure of following me to the bar, we are going to fetch a stupidly large amounts of shots.” He looks over at her, smiling, and perhaps for the first time in his life, when his gaze meets hers she’s already smiling up at him.

Maybe it’s that he’s never seen her look truly grateful towards him- after all, it’s not like he’s known for constantly doing her favours. Perhaps when he brought her a coffee a few weeks ago. But now, there’s a genuine warmth in her eyes, and she jumps up to join him at the bar, and before he knows it they’re ordering shots of jäger and Sambuca and vodka and giggling as they bring them to and from the table.

It’s one of their better nights, as a group, the alcohol eventually descending into dancing descending into karaoke descending into more dancing, Charles strutting his stuff to _Crazy in Love_ and Gina going for at least three 80s classics before she’s escorted away from the karaoke machine for what Amy claims to be “a gross misuse of power”.

With each warming sip of alcohol Jake forgets his stupid obsession with that dress she’s wearing. Or at least he thinks he does- maybe he just doesn’t care anymore.

In fact, he thinks, watching her strum an air guitar and throw her hair around to the rhythm of some song Rosa’s forced the bar to turn right up, her dress swishing round her legs and laughter bubbling out of her when she sees Charles clapping her on- that dress has finally been put to good use.

Henceforth, from this moment onwards, Jacob Peralta will not try to stop the way his chest warms when he sees her.

He might ignore it.

Compensate for it with humour.

But he most certainly will not stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again!! my show is back!!! the world is magical once more!!! 
> 
> (I JUST watched the new ep and I'm so glad this hiatus is over. I'm in such a good mood!)
> 
> this part was a little odd to write because i didn't want it to be too similar to the last one, but as a firm believer in the idea that Jake fell for Amy- even if unconsciously- a long while before she fell for him, I kind of felt like I had to write this one
> 
> hope u enjoyed (I have another WIP on its way!) and thank you as per for your overwhelmingly lovely support/comments, it genuinely makes my day and it's so nice to hear what you guys think! 
> 
> lots of love


	10. "He makes me laugh."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jake is in florida, and amy thinks back to a moment between them that helps her cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! did u wake up this morning looking for an emotionally conflicted Amy Santiago and some pre-relationship Peraltiago fluff? boy, have I got the stuff for u!!
> 
> enjoy, love u 
> 
> (update: my computer has stopped being a dick and is letting me reply to comments!! bit late but still)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Fuck!”

Amy quickly picks at the bit of boiling hot cheese that has just fallen off her slice of pizza and onto her shirt, the heat searing through the fabric into her skin. This. This is why she doesn’t eat this frozen food crap Jake keeps bringing to hers. Delicately, she dangles it into her mouth, eating it as quickly as possible and trying to ignore the temperature of this food. As if on cue, the crust splits in half, and another piece of cheese lands on her stomach.

Next time, she’ll just eat something healthier. Or, at the very least, something less messy.

For now, though, her appetite is gone, replaced with a numb, yet somehow aching kind of emptiness. Perhaps she’d be concerned by it, had she not had this gnawing absence of feeling picking at her on and off for the last few weeks. She shoves her plate away from herself and leans back into her chair, staring absently at the dinner table.

The apartment is dark. It’s meant to be _their_ apartment, she thinks, but no- right now, it’s hers. It can’t be past one or two in the morning. Amy sighs as the thought of the time crosses her mind- she has to be at work in seven, eight hours. On Santiago-time, as her missing boyfriend has so gracefully named it, that means she needs to be awake in six hours or so.

The fact is, she never would have even touched the damn pizza if it weren’t for how badly she wanted an excuse to complain about it. To joke about it, and put it aside, and give in when he wants to order something potentially even more gross but definitely more satisfying, and fall asleep on the couch watching something trashy. Instead, she’s sat here, rubbing her eyes, alone, in her dimly lit apartment, listening to the Brooklyn soundscape filtering through the one open window in the room.

It’s been two months, exactly, since Jake was put in witness protection.

Amy rubs her eyes again, her body begging her for sleep and her mind begging her for relief.

***

_“Stop rubbing your eyes- you’ve made your point, okay?” Jake mutters irritatedly, shaking his head and looking back to his laptop._

_“My point being?” Amy fires back. Admit you’re wrong, dick._

_“That I screwed up filing the evidence, and also the report, and now we have to stay here all night, and you hate me and you’re tired and you wish I was dead.”_

_“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” she snaps, smiling sourly at him when he turns back to her. “Feel free to apologise for that, y’know, whenever you feel like it.”_

_“I have nothing to apologise for!”_

_“- for which to apologise-” She corrects him under her breath, mostly just for the sake of it._

_“Nobody speaks like that. Not even you.” He snaps dismissively. “Whatever. I didn’t do anything wrong. Innocent mistake.”_

_“Well, mistakes, plural.” She smiles sarcastically over at him._

_A silence falls between them, the only sound for a couple of minutes being the occasional shuffling of papers or slight movement. The fluorescent light of the break room without any natural light to dilute it, Amy finds, can be a little much on someone’s head, if taken in prolonged periods._

_“I need some air.” She mumbles, standing up._

_“Hurry back, my dear, I’ll miss you!” His voice comes, sardonic, but she’s already halfway out of the room._

***

She misses him in a way that she’s never felt before. They’ve been split apart in the past. But never like this. Developing a coping mechanism was a whole task on its own.

Mostly, she just relives little moments, replaying and remembering little details at a moment’s notice, spurred on by something during her day. It sounds melodramatic, she realises, when really it occurs, for the most part, naturally. Sometimes, though, it’s deliberate. Of course it is. Nobody sane can get by without someone they love without thinking about them.

When he left the first time round, it had largely just been confusing; he’d just told her he liked her, and she was in a relationship, and she had dealt with the inner conflict of letting herself wonder about their relationship and worry over him coming home. Even though he wasn’t hers in the first place.

This time, he is, and she’ll shoot herself in the leg before she lets him come home in any state other than alive and well. She’ll become a defence lawyer. She’ll abandon her organiser. It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s okay.

She picks up her plate and ambles towards the kitchen, throwing away the remains of her half-finished slices of pizza and putting her plate in the dishwasher. Brusquely and suddenly, she’s aware of how empty this kitchen feels, as if she’s expecting his arms to come from behind her and slip round her waist any second.

If you’d have told her that she’d be missing him like this when they’d first become partners, she would have no less believed you than she would have headed into the holding cell to make some new buddies. She smiles wryly to herself now, thinking about those early days of their partnership. She had, genuinely, at some moments, wished she could knock him out.

If you’d have told her that she’d be missing him like this five or six years ago, she’d have laughed in your face.

***

_“Are you kidding me?” Amy snorts, unable to control the laugh that escapes her. “You spelt ‘axe’ wrong?”_

_“It was dark! I was tired!” Jake says defensively, looking over at her from the couch. She keeps giggling. “Okay, fine, laugh it up. You’re probably going to descend into rage when you inevitably find the next five thousand mistakes. Pizza?”_

_She looks over at him, and the takeout box at the end of the sofa, then checks her watch. 10:15pm. She’s not going to get out of here for a good few hours, at best._

_“Fine, but only because I’m starving and you owe me.”_

_Outside the breakroom, the sound of a hammer against the wall drills into the room._

_“What the hell are they doing?” Amy snaps, mouth half-full with her bite of pizza._

_“I think they’re replacing the glass that Hitchcock so gracefully destroyed the other day. Fixing the frame, too.”_

_Ah, yes, she thinks, the memory of Hitchcock accidentally throwing his mug sideways into a window of the briefing room last week flooding back into her head._

_“Good, having a sheet of plastic in that window is making us look so unprofessional,” she sighs, sitting down at the table again and leaning back into her chair._

_“No offence, Ames, but I don’t think anyone who’s been passing through this police precinct has been likely to care that we have a piece of plastic instead of a window looking into our briefing room-”_

_“Woah, woah, woah,” she says, slowing him down, a smug smile creeping onto her face. There’s a pause as she looks at him, grinning._

_“What?” He asks confusedly._

_“Since when do you call me ‘Ames’?”_

_He looks back at her blankly. Her grin hasn’t faded- she raises her eyebrows at his lack of response, and he can feel her ready to tease him._

_“I didn’t.”_

_“Yeah, no, you one-hundred percent just called me ‘Ames’,” she says, folding her arms, “Am I your new bestest friend?”_

_“Oh, god,” he moans._

_“Did you sit up last night thinking up a nickname for me?” She playfully nudges his shoulder with the back of her hand._

_“Shut up, Santiago.” He picks up a piece of paperwork and brings it as close to his face as he can while remaining vaguely natural._

_“Nope! You’ve committed to a nickname now, you can’t revert back to my surname.”_

_“Wait, Amy.”_

_“I mean, that’s a little better, but I actually quite like Ames,” she starts._

_“Amy.” He tone is firmer this time._

_“What?”_

_“We missed something- look.” He holds out the paperwork he’s holding. “Every single one of our main suspects used the same phone network- look in the corner of those text conversations.”_

_She takes the photos, looking them over. Sure enough, every single one has the same phone network._

_“So what? We have a few fans of Verizon.”_

_“Verizon Heights.” He says, waiting for her reaction. Suddenly, it hits her._

_“The condo! The condo where-“_

_“-where we last have evidence of their suspected leader, the super scary moustache dude that none of them would say anything about!”_

_“They must be using the phone contracts to communicate numbers to each other,” she says, unable to keep the smile from spreading over her face. “That’s amazing. What about our informant?”_

_He proudly presents a final print-out of a phone screenshot, where, sure enough, in the corner-_

_“AT &T. They know. He’s been cut off.” She grins._

_“Bet you’re glad we never submitted this paperwork now, huh.”_

_She rolls her eyes, picking up the discarded piece of paper she’d been complaining about earlier on. Her eyes dart to the first few spelling mistakes that Terry’s highlighted._

_“This is insane. No wonder we couldn’t submit this report, Jake. I’m never trusting you with paperwork ever again.”_

_“Somehow, I think I’ll be able to live with that.”_

_She skim reads the opening page of the report, and, as he predicted, her face eventually dissolves into a scowl._

_Eventually, she comes over to the couch, her fingers gesticulating a quick “up” at his legs, and he swivels round so she can sit next to him. She slumps into the cushions, then shuffles the bundle of papers she’s holding on her lap._

_“Okay, let’s get to work.”_

***

At first, it was the little things. An arm lazily thrown over her torso in bed, a goodnight text, a misplaced instinct to check that he’s eating anything other than some kind of gummy candy for breakfast.

Then, the reality of their situation crept up on her, slowly, but surely. She found herself worrying about how long it’d take for him to come back, whether their relationship would be able to withstand it. She wondered what he was doing, who he was meeting, how safe he was.

And though her worries, since he left, have evolved, one thing has remained the same- the fear that Figgis will catch up with him. She’d kill just for some intel, just a _whisper_ about what he’s found and who he’s met and how he’s doing.

Amy zones back into the room so swiftly she almost feels a little bit dizzy; she’s standing, absently, in the middle of her kitchen, her dishwasher slightly open next to her leg. She knees it shut and switches it on.

What now? What does she normally do now? Bed? Watch a movie? Do some work?

Her brain has officially gone numb. She has no idea what she’s doing. He’s overtaken her entire headspace, anxiety creeping over her and stirring her uncomfortably, a quiet reminder that no matter how emotionally or physically exhausted she is today, she will not be sleeping any time soon.

Pyjamas are probably a good start, though.

She walks into her bedroom, clicking on a couple of lamps on her way to her room, trying to bring a little more light to the living area, make it feel normal. Shuffling around in her drawers, she picks out an old shirt from college, and immediately pulls off her blouse and her bra, leaving them crumpled at the end of her bed, just to don something comfier. The comfort is like a wave crashing over her, the soft fabric against her skin so good she could cry. She stands up and pulls off her pants, dropping them to the floor, so she can find some sweats. The hair on her bare legs stands on end as they’re exposed to the slightly colder air. She hastens her search for pyjama pants, her hands digging frantically through her drawer.

To her irritation, there seems to be barely anything, save a slightly uncomfortable pair of gym leggings from her days of drills back at the academy. She slides the drawer shut and sits back against the end of her bed, beginning to accept the prospect of sleeping in her underwear.

Her eyes drop to the bottom drawer, and her heart drops a little.

Jake’s drawer.

She’s not even touched it since he’s left; it hasn’t even occurred to her, given that a good deal of his stuff has disappeared alongside him. But right now, with a lump in her throat and that awful, troubling numbness in her tummy, she’s all too quick to open it, pulling out a pair of his sweats and trying so hard not to cry when she smells him on the fabric, instead opting to put them on as quickly as possible and head for her living room.

Every part of her apartment is tainted, in the most marvellous, awful way; her heart still flutters a little when she sees her kitchen counter and she’s reminded of the early days of their relationship with the sickly sweet mornings they’d spend in there, making breakfast and joking and kissing each other so delicately, so slowly, you’d think one touch too many would destroy the other like precious china.

Her living room, specifically her couch, despite the surprisingly copious amounts of sex, late-night chatter, and movie-watching that’s taken place there, still, when it comes to Jake, stands out as a pre-relationship place, images conjured in her head of bringing him back here late on a weeknight to talk over a case or complain about something at work, or even just to argue over a movie they couldn’t agree on. The attraction was unspoken, perhaps even unnoticed, but boy, was it there.

She sinks into her couch and pulls her throw over her knees, uncertain of what to do next. Instinctively she turns on the TV, and lets the varying glows of some soap opera flit over her face.

At first, it was the little things.

An arm lazily thrown over her torso in bed.

A goodnight text.

A misplaced instinct to check that he’s eating anything other than some kind of gummy candy for breakfast.

Now, it’s his toothy smile, the one that goes so well with those soft, warm, dark eyes. It’s his teasing, his confidence in himself and the things, the people he loves. It’s his _laugh_ , rich and wholesome and guttural and so infectious she almost giggles thinking about it now, alone, on the couch.

Laughter is, perhaps, the one part of their relationship that has never wavered in its nature, whether it’s in the way he winds her up, makes a stupid joke, or purely pushes her until she’s in a fit of giggles.  
  
A chuckle escapes her as she thinks of one particular evening, one she’s always remembered fondly, where they’d stayed in the precinct too late, and, even if only momentarily, the senseless feeling eating away at her insides pauses. She pulls her knees to her chest, breathing him in slowly, and, thinking about that night, she closes her eyes and blissfully finds that she can allow her brain to rest.

***

_“Hey.” Jake’s voice comes from the floor. Amy, lying lengthways across the couch, does not hear him. “Hey!”_

_“What?”_

_“Just checking you’re not asleep.”_

_“Fair. What time is it?” She rubs her eyes and sits up, the back of her head warm from where it’s been nestled into the couch._

_“Like, three.”_

_A pause settles between them again. Amy swings her legs off the couch and steps over him, leaving the half of the paperwork she’d been building on the cushions._

_“What’re you up to down there?” She asks quietly, sleepily looking down at where he’s lying. He lowers the piece of paper he has held over his face and looks up inquisitively._

_“You look freaky from this angle.” He turns his head to the side, like a little dog, she thinks.  “Come down here so I can show you what I’ve been working on for the last twenty minutes.”_

_She sits down next to him, leaning against the wall behind her. He follows suit, not before handing over the piece of paperwork._

_“I don’t get it. There’s no corrections. This page is perfect.”_

_“Right,” he says, “so what am I missing?” She looks at him inquisitively, confused, wondering quietly if he’s gone insane. His dishevelled appearance might suggest so, were he the tiniest bit messier; his plaid shirt is rolled up unevenly around his arms and his tie hangs, undone, around his neck. His face, pale and tired, only exacerbates how dark his features seem to her. “There has to be something wrong. I’ve messed up on every other page. Why not this one?”_

_He lets his head sink back against the wall, then finally looks back over at her. Just for a moment, maybe two, they remain like this, silently facing each other. Eventually, slowly, Amy smiles._

_“What?”_

_“I think… you might be overthinking it,” she says, a little chuckle escaping her as she says it._

_He echoes her, laughing a little, before it evolves into a groan._

_“Oh, god,” he says, still half-laughing, his hands cupping his face as he slumps down against the wall. “I think I need to go to bed.”_

_“That makes two of us.”_

_“Okay,” he says, after a moment, readying himself to get back up again- before he stops, abruptly, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. “Wait, Amy, oh my god.”_

_“What?” She says, alarmed by the urgency in his voice._

_“Look.”_

_Just outside the breakroom door, propped up against someone’s desk, is the sheet of plastic that’s been serving as a replacement for the broken window in the briefing room- and in it, the extremely distorted reflections of Jacob Peralta and Amy Santiago._

_They stare for a moment. Then another moment. But as soon as Jake pulls a face, it’s as though they break down on cue, like it’s perfectly chorerographed; both of them erupt into giggles, making faces and reacting to each other’s reflections in turn. The laughter that creeps up on them is, Amy thinks, the kind of exhausted hysteria that only comes from a severe lack of sleep._

_Amy giggles so hard she lets out a loud snort- which, after a shocked laugh, only encourages Jake further, pulling at his eyebrows and moving around so his face darts around the plastic. They’re drunk on laughter, their bodies lit up with the release of so much amusement at once._

_Pulling out her phone as slyly as she can, she turns to look at him, turning away from the plastic, her eyes almost entirely filled with tears from her hysterical laughing. They’re so close, face to face, that it might be **something** , she thinks, if she weren’t about to do this-_

_She taps her phone’s camera button and, as soon as he realises what she’s done, she can only giggle even more, her stomach beginning to ache pleasantly from the excitement._

_Wordlessly, he takes her phone, still laughing, and he too is spurred on by the picture of himself, giggling even more._

_“Please don’t,” he tries to speak, giggling even more, “do anything mean with that picture.”_

_“It’s too late now,” she says, sending it off to the squad’s group text chain, choking back giggles as she watches him respond in an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “You’d do the same!” She says indignantly._

_“That’s true,” he says, laughing off a final few giggles. “Shall we?” He stands up, and offers her his hand. “C’mon, it’s late. I’ll walk you to your car, and you can drive me home, because you love me and are clearly much less tired than me.”_

_She rolls her eyes._

_“Fine.”_

_Under the fluorescent lights of a slightly dingy police precinct breakroom, at 3:02am on a Thursday, with sore sides and pleasantly exhausted heads, two detectives take each other’s hand, one helping the other up from the floor._

_Under the dim lamplight of this police precinct’s parking lot, at 3:07am this very same Thursday, sliding into the front seat of her car, Amy Santiago looks over at the man with whom she has spent so much time, and shared so many memories, over the last six years._

_Under the sole interior light in the ceiling of her car, at 3:08am, she thinks, as briefly as this light seems to illuminate them before Jacob Peralta pulls his door closed and it clicks off, that she may very well be in love with him._

_At 3:09, in the dark, starting her engine, she does not know it yet,_

_but she is sure._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! you got to the end of my tenth part of you are so consistent!! I've been writing this one for a little while. I love these two so much and have always wondered why I haven't gone into this time in their relationship before, so I went for it. It was definitely a different feeling, writing parts where they're together and where they're not (both in terms of their relationship and physically being together). 
> 
> I've been writing one shots for you're so consistent since the new year and it's helped me get back into my writing in a way I can't describe. thank you all so much for the kudos and comments and just general loveliness directed towards this work. I'm not going to be updating you are so consistent for a little while now to work on a lengthier bit of writing for these two, one big story which I'm hoping to upload really soon!! 
> 
> thank you again, especially those of you who've been coming back every time I've uploaded a new part- I've really enjoyed working on this and can't wait to bring lots more Jake and Amy into the world as soon as possible!!
> 
> <3


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